October 1987. A quiet Tuesday night in Ashburn, Virginia. Luna's uncle, a retired miller, calls her with something he cannot explain: the old gristmill at the edge of town has been running for three nights straight, though no one has turned on the water, and the gears were seized solid twenty years ago. When Luna drives out to meet him, she finds the millstones turning in darkness, grinding something that is not grain—a fine grey dust that smells of wet wool and old copper. Her uncle stands at the hopper, feeding in handfuls of something she cannot see, his face lit by no lamp. And the mill keeps grinding. And the dust keeps falling. And he tells her, 'It's almost finished.' But what it is, or what it will leave behind when the stones finally stop—that is the part she still cannot shake.

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