The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A large wooden wheel slowly turns in a quiet, old-fashioned gristmill, the sound of creaking wood and grinding grain filling the air. Like, the sunlight's filtering in through small windows, casting a warm glow over the dusty machinery as it somehow just keeps running on its own, perfectly processing grain into flour. Outside, it's a calm afternoon with a clear blue sky, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of nearby trees, and a small wooden cart is just continually replenishing itself with freshly harvested wheat, uh, somehow always full. The air's thick with the smell of grain and wood.