Mira folds the warm paper and tucks it into her jacket pocket, then starts up the hillside path toward the mill. The grass is slick and the boot-prints she noticed earlier are fresher here — deeper, the heel pressed hard as though whoever made them was in a hurry. The waterwheel turns slowly against the current, its ancient paddles dripping, and up close the groaning is more like a voice than machinery. The door is unlocked; it swings inward at her touch, releasing a smell of old flour and something else, sharp and electrical, like a storm about to break. The upper floor is dark except for a thin bar of amber light under a closed door at the top of the stairs. She can hear movement — deliberate, unhurried — and then a shadow crosses the light from inside, pausing as though whoever cast it has just heard her come in.