The grains align at midnight, their shadows casting vague messages, known only to the initiated.
Every Thursday, just as the clock chimes thirteen, the aisles tremble. The grains whisper a soft melody. No one cares enough to notice, but those who do often wonder: what consequence follows this dance? Skeptical eyes have veiled many truths throughout history, and this truth seems no exception.
Veteran watchers wear worn-out hats and stare from the back of the agri-hall. Their murmur is an indistinct chorus, like bees trapped in amber. You get comfortable with a rhythm you practice in solitude, like echoes growing down dirt roads. Sometimes they buy grains just to mix in something common - intent unnoticed.
Reports show signs, patterns among the random noise — scholars whisper behind locked doors. Have they bridged truth and fiction, these perennial needle-seekers in hay? Consider their eyes next time you grasp the grain — it never followed you from the aisle all the same.