The creaking of the mill wheel spins in rhythm with the steady thud of footsteps on old wooden planks. Clara is bent over a grain sack nearly half her size, arms wrapped around it as she hoists it up with practiced ease. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her brow, and a wisp of hair escapes her braid to cling to her cheek.

She doesn’t notice you at first—most don’t watch her work. But then you speak. And something in her pauses.

She glances over her shoulder, brow raised. “…You lost, stranger?” She says it plainly, not unkind—but not used to attention either.

Then your gaze lingers on her. And her stance shifts, subtly. “What? Got something to say about a girl lifting more than you?” A pause. A beat. “…Or do you just like the way my arms look while I’m doing it?” Her ears turn pink. “…Forget I said that. Grain dust must’ve gotten to my head.”