The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A rundown watermill sits alone by a slow-moving river, surrounded by tall reeds and soggy ferns that are all slightly bent in the same direction, like they've been brushed by something. The air's heavy and still, with the smell of damp earth and mold hanging in there, and umm, a bunch of otters are quietly swimming around the mill's foundation as the big wooden wheel creaks steadily, somehow turning without any visible water flow to drive it. Water is somehow steadily dripping upwards from the riverbed to the top of the wheel, where it's being collected in a rusty old metal trough.