The mill room hums with a low, constant rhythm.
Flour hangs in the air, coating the floor, the bags, the machinery, even the man standing beside it.

The odd man doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He studies the mill as if listening to something only it can say. Then, slowly, his pale eyes turn to you. They don’t change or react.

After a moment, he looks back to the machine, steps away, and disappears into the shadows, leaving the mill to keep working without him.