Just after dawn the mill began to turn, but only as a whisper. The cups on the shelf were still yawning, handles in a sleepy row, and the lid waited for them to finish blinking.
We asked at the kiosk. "The baker told me," said a neighbor with a paper bag, "it will not grind louder than a secret until every mug has stretched. By seven the whole shelf already knows the smell and nods to the lid."
The next morning the same neighbor came back and stood by the window. The mill whispered again, the cups nodded, and breakfast seemed to tiptoe in.