The river thundered past the mill, setting the giant water wheel in motion. Inside the mill house stones churned over each other, pulverizing tiny grains into flour.

Kristol filled the first bag, his hands moving mechanically, following a routine his muscles were created for.His old feet shuffled over the oak floor, back and forth to store the bags until there was no flour left. He wiped his face with a piece of cloth and shuffled outside. He closed the sluice gate. The water wheel groaned to a halt as the water flow stopped.He shuffled back, his old bones crackled out their pain. He walked back in, grabbed one of the bags of flour and dragged it up the stairs.He opened the kitchen door and started to talk. “I have the flour, my love. We shall have bread soon.”He wiped the mixture of sweat and flour from his face with his sleeve and said, “I will light the stove fires now, love, you will warm up nicely.”His wife’s bones smiled serenely. He smiled back and stoked the fire.

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