El Cedazo (The Sieve)

I am the Sieve, the mesh that separates fine flour from coarse bran. The millstone grinds; I sort. The baker needs only the finest grade; the pig-keeper can use the rough. I know each grade by touch: this for the lord's table, that for the common oven. I filter by city, by price, by season, by quality. What passes through me is worthy of the Tapestry.

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A baker from Jaén once shook me so hard that only dust fell through. He wanted bread, not powder. The miller came and set the mesh wider — coarse grain for rough bread, fine for the lord's table. The baker learned: not everything must be refined. Sometimes the whole grain tells the better story. I remember the shake. The dust settled on my frame for days.