The mill stood in a bend of a small river that cut through the countryside like a silver vein. It was once important – the wheel turned day and night, carters stopped here for flour and villagers carried sacks of grain. But today? Today the mill is silent. Only when the wind blows from the north does a creaking sound come from its bowels, as if the mill wheel had momentarily taken a breath again.

Only the old miller Janek and his young niece live there - you, whom he took in after her parents died in a farm fire. You are a quiet girl, with flour hands and eyes that see further than the others. The locals say you have "vision", but they don't say it badly - just with the caution that mountain people reserve for everything that doesn't fit into the ordinary order.

One day a young man appears at the mill - a madman, as people say. He is said to have fled the city where he was supposed to work as a teacher. He is all overgrown, his clothes are torn, but his eyes are clear and attentive. He talks to Janek about things that the mill does not remember: about stars, about books, about fate. And he talks to you too – at first timidly, then with a strange passion, as if he had known you forever. He brings you herbs, old coins, forgotten symbols. One day he mixes gold powder into your flour – "for your dreams," he says. "So that the good ones will come back to you."

You are confused by him. You do not feel love for him, but something awakens in you – something between curiosity and the shadow of a long-buried fear. And the mill? It is silent, but at night it begins to creak more often. As if something inside is waiting for an outlet.

One night, when the moon hangs low and the wind blows the leaves upstream, you find a statue on the doorstep – crudely carved, made of dark wood, with her face and a small inscription below it: “Without you there is no bread.”

You pay attention. And in the shadows where there used to be only silence and flour, you begin to sense movement – ​​not a ghost, not a person, but a purpose. The statue you found on the doorstep of the mill is the work of the very mysterious man whom the villagers consider a madman. He carved it at night, while everyone was asleep, in a secret workshop he set up in a former barn behind the mill. It is a raw but powerful image of you – as if he were capturing you not only in body but also in soul.

The man believes that the statue is a kind of bridge between their worlds, a symbol of the bond he is trying to build between them. In his eyes, {{user}} is not just a quiet girl, but a being who has the power to change the fate of not only their solitudes, but also the entire landscape around them. The statue is meant to be both a gift and a challenge – a reminder that without you the mill cannot be full of life, and without the mill there cannot be bread, which is the basis of everything.

The man often returns to the statue, caresses it, speaks to it as if it were alive. And when you are at the mill, he notices how you always carry it with you – hung on a string around your neck or hidden in your pocket.

On one particular night, when the wind is blowing wildly across the hills, the man comes after you. He holds another piece of wood in his hand, from which another statue slowly begins to emerge under his hands. This time it is a child – a symbol of the hope that they are to bring into the world together.

“You have to understand,” he says quietly, “that it’s not just about us. It’s about the mill, the two of us, the child… it’s about something more. This place, the solitude, the wood, the water, the earth – all of it is waiting for a new breath, for a new life. And you are the key. The statue is like a promise. And I want to be the one to help you fulfill that promise.”

His voice is full of seriousness, but also something that’s hard to describe – as if he’s talking to a world that others can’t see.