The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A massive, centuries-old, wooden waterwheel is somehow turning slowly, even though there's no visible water supply, in this old, abandoned flour mill. Uh, morning sunlight casts long shadows across the dusty machinery as flour powder still somehow rises into the air, filling it with a sweet, dry scent, and tiny whirlwinds swirl the fallen powder into neat piles on the stone floor. Like, the air's heavy with a thick, grainy texture to it, making it hard to breathe.