The deep, rhythmic thrum of the millstones became the new bass note in Aethelburg's symphony. For Finnian, the sound was a constant, quiet vindication. It was the proof of his work, not displayed on a screen or recorded in a ledger, but felt in the very stones of the city, tasted in its daily bread. He would sometimes walk past the mill just to hear it, to feel that solid, grinding vibration travel up through the soles of his feet. It was a different kind of data stream, one that spoke of full bellies and security, not of profit margins and market shares.
The success of the repair changed his standing. The story of the waterwheel spread, embellished with each telling. He was no longer just the "newcomer with clever hands." He was the man who had mended the unmendable, who had seen the strength in a broken thing and known how to make it whole again. People looked at him differently. There was a new respect in their eyes, a curiosity that went deeper than before.
