The mill is louder inside than it looks from the outside.
The moment Quinn steps through the door, sound presses in from all sides—the groan of the wheel turning somewhere beyond the wall, the rattle of grain rushing through chutes, voices raised just enough to cut through the constant noise. The air is thick with damp wood and flour dust, the smell clinging to the back of his throat.
It takes him a second to remember to breathe normally.
He folds his umbrella and gives it a small shake before moving toward the lockers along the wall. His body chooses the path before he does, feet angling left without conscious thought.
The locker he stops at isn't his.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
It sits near the end of the row, paint peeling, the hinge rusted just enough to complain when it moves.
Quinn's hand closes around the handle.
The moment he opens it, the world slips.
The clang of the mill dulls, like someone has pressed a hand over his ears. A different light overlays the present one. Morning instead of midday. The smell of oil and wet grain is sharper, fresher.
A voice speaks from just behind him.
"You can use this one."
He turns in the memory.
Someone stands there, taller than him, shoulder turned, face lost in shadow no matter how hard Quinn tries to focus. He knows the voice. He's sure of it.
"No one cares about it," the voice continues. "Just don't leave it a mess."
Quinn opens his mouth to answer—
Pain snaps behind his eyes.
The mill rushes back in all at once. Sound crashes down on him, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath. He blinks hard and stumbles half a step back.
Warm wetness drips onto his hand.
He touches his face and pulls his fingers away red.
A nosebleed.
It stops almost immediately—blood thickening, then drying. His head throbs once, deep and dull, then settles.
Quinn swallows and looks back into the locker.
Just metal, empty and ordinary.
He tucks his umbrella inside, hangs his jacket on the hook, and shuts the door. The clang echoes a little too loudly, ringing in his skull.
No one looks his way.
"All right," a voice calls over the noise. "You made it."
Quinn turns.
Two workers are heading toward him. One is older, thick through the arms, sleeves rolled up with flour dust clinging to his beard. The other looks closer to Quinn's age, lean and quick-moving, already tugging gloves into place as he walks.
"Didn't think you'd bail after all," the older one says with a grin. "Come on. We'll get you set since you haven't been here in a while."
Quinn nods and follows, his head giving a small, warning pulse as he moves.
They walk him across the floor, pointing things out as they go.
"Intake here."
"Storage over there."
"Remember don't stand there unless you want to lose a toe."
The words stack neatly in his mind, slotting into place as if there were already spaces waiting for them.
"Lever sticks sometimes," the younger worker says, tapping it with his knuckles. "Kick it if it jams. Not too hard."
Quinn slows. "Kick it?"
Both men look at him.
"…Yeah," the older one says. "Like you always do."
The pause that follows is brief. Measured.
Just long enough for Quinn to feel it.
His head aches again, sharper this time, and with it comes a flicker of motion—his own boot swinging forward, before the lever snaps loose under practiced force.
He nods. "Right."
They exchange a glance and keep moving.
"This'll be your spot," the younger worker says, stopping near the intake. "Same as last time."
Quinn looks around.
The machines. The spacing of the floorboards. The timing of the wheel's turn. None of it feels new.
He steps into place without being told where to stand.
The older man watches him for a second longer than necessary. "You feeling all right, Quinn?"
"Yes," Quinn says automatically.
Then, a beat later, more honestly: "I think so."
That seems to be enough.
Work takes over.
Bags are hauled. Grain shifts and rattles. Levers are pulled and released. Quinn watches at first, careful and quiet, then moves—one step, then another—until watching turns into doing without him noticing the moment it changes.
Someone nudges him aside just before a spill rattles down. He reacts instantly, shifting his weight, bracing a sack before it tips.
The motion is clean and efficient.
"Still got it," the younger worker says, faintly impressed.
Quinn forces a small smile. "Guess so."
At one point, he steps forward—and the floor gives.
Not enough to trip him. Just enough to feel wrong.
Soft, almost yielding, like wet earth instead of wood.
His breath catches. His head spikes with pain, sharp enough to blur his vision for a heartbeat.
Then it's solid again.
"Careful," the older man says without looking. "That board'll do that sometimes."
Quinn looks down. The plank is simple like any other.
"Yeah," he says slowly.
The explanation settles over the moment easily.
Later, they break for water, leaning against the wall while the mill grinds on without them. The younger worker wipes his hands on his trousers and squints at Quinn.
"You sure you've done this before?" he asks, not accusing, just curious.
Quinn considers the question.
Images flicker—hands like his, older than his memories, doing this same work in winter light, breath fogging in the cold.
"I've helped," Quinn says carefully. "Just… not often."
"Huh," the worker says. "Could've fooled me."
The older man snorts. "Don't go knocking your head around, though. Would explain some things."
Quinn exhales softly, half a laugh, and nods.
When the bell rings—sharp and loud—it makes him jump more than it should. His head throbs in response, dull and insistent. He steps back, wiping his hands, the noise of the mill still pressing in on him from all sides.
As he passes the lockers, his gaze flicks to the borrowed one.
For a moment, a thought settles in his mind.
If he opened it now, something inside wouldn't be where he left it.
The idea doesn't feel like fear, it feels like recognition.
Quinn keeps walking.
There's still work to do. No one seems ready to question why the day feels just a little off.
And for now, neither is he.