Walking through a field whose fruits have already sprouted and reach up to your waist, it is always worth remembering that somewhere in the vicinity there is a lonely mill. With a creak, its dilapidated boards withstand gusts of wind and with it the oak door opens. Once again, when the miller turned the metal key several times with a characteristic grunt, it howled and opened. You decided to come in anyway. As soon as the door opened, warm air washed over you, standing in the cold wind. It was clear from the miller’s face that he was not very happy about your visit, but obviously he would not mind telling you a couple of his stories... Come in, sit down... The tea is already getting cold.