The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Uh, a small, old-fashioned millstone is steadily grinding away, pouring out a constant stream of freshly ground flour into a big, wooden barrel, which just somehow keeps filling up but never overflows. Like, the air's pretty warm and musty, with a scent of fresh bread and a hint of hay, and it's really quiet except for the sound of steady creaking of the mill's wooden beams and the distant sound of birds chirping. The sun's shining brightly through a small window high up on one wall, casting a warm glow over the scene. A bunch of fresh flowers are somehow just stuck to the walls and ceiling, like they're glued there or something.