The mill at the edge of town now stamps a tiny passport for every sack of flour. The miller says the booklet is mostly manners: a milling date, a quiet stamp, and one blank page where the baker may write that the flour arrived well.
We asked at the bread kiosk. A woman with a still-warm loaf said the morning queue has grown gentler. "It waits on the step now," she told us, "and only comes in when someone reads the date aloud." A note in the bakery's book of thanks claimed the rolls tasted calmer, which nobody could explain and everyone accepted.
By evening a neighbor rumor had a sack asking to see the baker's apron first. The baker says that is not quite true. He only nodded at the passport, the flour nodded back, and the oven was already warm.