Whump, whump, whump. The steady rhythm of the windmill's blades is all you hear. From the hilltop, they’ve turned like this for centuries, a soothing, almost hypnotic sound. Outside, the soft hum is calming, like the world's own lullaby. But inside, the air changes. The gears grind, louder, sharper, filling the space with a harsh, mechanical scream. It feels alive in here—dangerous. As the mundane threat of the machine fades, something far more horrific waits. Over the grinding and the endless whump, whump, whump, the shadows stir. They don’t need to be silent. Not in a place like this.
Cheers and Safe Travels Friend!
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