Mira lunges and snatches the paper just as a gust tries to tear it free. Up close, the lettering is even stranger — not quite any alphabet she recognises, yet somehow her eyes keep finding shapes inside it: a door, a flame, a pair of hands reaching toward each other. The paper itself is wrong. It feels dry despite the damp ground, and faintly warm, the same low warmth as the oak bark. In the margin, squeezed between rows of symbols, someone has written two words in ordinary pencil: *follow carefully*. The mill wheel groans again, louder this time, and a light flickers in the uppermost window — there and gone so fast she almost doubts it. But there's also the symbols on the paper itself, and something is starting to nag at the back of her mind, like she has seen this lettering before, somewhere closer to home.