The water falls steadily from the old wooden channel, glimmering in the afternoon sun. The structure beside it looks worn and tired, yet strong enough to have endured the passing of years. Once, long ago, this water turned a mill wheel that ground the grain for an entire village. Now, only the stream remains — tireless, faithful, whispering the same tune it has sung for centuries.
Standing beside it, I can almost hear the creak of the old wheel, the splash of paddles turning, and the soft murmur of voices from another time. There’s peace here, but also a strange sadness — as if the water remembers what people have forgotten.
They say that when the wind is still, you can hear the ghost of the miller moving about, checking the flow, his footsteps blending with the rhythm of the stream. Perhaps he never left; perhaps the sound of water was too much a part of his soul to let go.
Once, a boy stood by this same fall and dropped a leaf into the water. It spun for a moment, caught in the light, and vanished below. Years passed. The boy grew old, but when he returned, the water still flowed exactly the same. He smiled, realizing that while everything changes, the song of the stream never does.
The mill may be silent, its wheel stilled forever, but the water keeps its memory alive — a living echo of work, time, and life flowing endlessly forward.
Wow! This is beautifully written.
Change is constant. Still,some things never change.
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STOPA very nice entry. I loved reading the melancholy.
This mill is lucky, still used and the flour is sold.
👍