The old mill stood abandoned. Lifeless. Bereft.
I wondered how anyone could love a building with a dead heart. Once full of sound and motion and life, empty. Hours spent playing in the milling room, chasing butterflies along the river, finding tiny life in every crumble of dirt. Mom and Pops were alive then. Mills were important then. Now, not so much, at least an old, broken, water-mill.
I turned, accepting the pen and paper. Scrawled my name large and loud.
Finally coming home.