Quinn works for a while longer.
He settles back into the routine and lets his body take over. Lift. Carry. Set down. Adjust the lever when the grain backs up. Step away when the wheel groans a little louder than usual.
He pays attention to things as he works.
He starts small. Names, mostly. He listens when people talk—not just to what they say, but how they say it.
The older man with the beard is Harren. The younger one is Tomas. He waits until he's sure, until the sound of the name settles properly in his head, then says each one once, just to hear it aloud.
They sound right, to him at least.
That realization sends a dull ache through his temples.
He exhales slowly and keeps going.
Next he tests places.
When Harren tells him to fetch a tool from the side room, Quinn nods and goes without asking where it is. His feet turn the right way on their own, two turns and duck under the low beam.
Halfway there, the ache spikes.
For a moment the mill doubles—boards overlaying boards, the smell of grain cutting through colder air.
The tool is exactly where his fingers expect it to be.
The pain fades as soon as he grips it, leaving behind a hollow pressure, like something clicking into place where it shouldn't have been missing.
He stands there a second longer than necessary, staring at the tool in his hand before walking off.
Later, Tomas jokes about Quinn nearly dropping a sack "back last winter." The words barely finish before Quinn's head throbs again, sharper this time. Winter flashes through his mind—light slanting low through the mill windows, breath fogging, hands stiff with cold.
No date or year, just a sensation.
Quinn smiles at the right moment and lets the comment pass without asking anything. Winter could mean anything. A single day. A few weeks.
The headache recedes once he stops trying to pin it down.
He keeps working, half in the moment, half watching himself move through it. Watching how his body anticipates weight shifts. How his hands adjust their grip before his eyes register the problem.
Nothing strange happens.
Not really.
No soft boards or slipping time. Just a growing sense that the day is unfolding too smoothly.
A whistle blows.
The sound drives straight through his skull, causing him to cover his ears as he gets a headache
No one moves at first.
Harren is the first to look toward the door.
His jaw tightens. "That's not ours."
The mill doors open a moment later.
Two Civic Registry officers step inside, rain-dark cloaks dripping onto the stone floor. The room shifts around them—voices drop and movements slow.
Quinn feels it immediately.
The headache tightens, like a pressure being applied from the inside. Not pain exactly.
"Routine inspection," the lead officer says. "Carry on."
No one really does.
They move through the mill slowly. One closes his eyes now and then, head tilting slightly, listening for something that can't be heard. The other watches the workers instead.
Quinn keeps his hands moving.
He doesn't look at them.
The pressure in his head builds anyway, pulsing in time with the wheel.
The lead officer stops near the intake. He steps forward, then back, testing the space.
Nothing happens.
"Residual," he murmurs.
The word makes Quinn's head spike painfully, sharp enough that his vision blurs for a moment
"It's weak," the second officer adds. "Already fading."
They move on.
One of them pauses near the lockers.
Quinn feels it before he sees it—a sudden cold settles low in his spine, followed by a tight, focused ache behind his eyes.
The officer's fingers brush the door of the locker and linger there for just a fraction of a second.
Not opening it, just acknowledging it.
Quinn holds still. He doesn't let his breathing change. The headache flares, then steadies.
The hand lifts and the officer moves on.
A few minutes later, the lead officer straightens.
"False positive," he says. "Likely environmental, wet weather, and an old structure."
"I'll log it," the other replies. "We'll take no action."
They leave, rain swallowing the sound of the door behind them.
The mill workers exhale.
Someone laughs, too loud. Harren shakes his head and goes back to work.
"Never like that."
Tomas steps in beside Quinn as the rhythm slowly reasserts itself. His voice stays low.
"Good thing you weren't here on your usual days," he says. "They love showing up when something feels off."
Quinn nods. The headache eases slightly. "Lucky timing."
"Or bad," Tomas says, then studies him. "You all right? Didn't scare you off this time, did it?"
Quinn shakes his head. "I'm fine."
It's mostly true.
Tomas watches him a second longer, then nods. "Good. We could use the help."
Work resumes.
The wheel turns, grain falls and time presses forward again.
Quinn keeps working.
The headaches don't vanish. They settle instead, coming and going as he touches the edges of something just out of reach—names, places, moments that belong to this body but not yet to him.
Piece by piece, the shape of his mind is forming.
And whatever the Registry felt—however faint—noticed him.
Even if they logged nothing.
Not today.
But next time, he knows, the pain will come faster.
And it will mean he's closer.