The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Fog seeps into a vast, dimly lit abandoned textile mill, the air thick with the smell of damp cotton and machine oil. Umm, the sound of gently creaking wooden looms and the soft hum of idle engines fill the air, somehow perfectly in sync with the gentle patter of rain against the corrugated metal roof. A massive, half-finished sweater hangs from the ceiling, its yarn somehow merging seamlessly into the branches of a living tree that grows out of the mill's center, its leaves tangled in the remains of a forgotten production line. The sun appears to be setting inside the building.