Las Dos Puertas
I am the mill with two doors. The east door opens to the road — travellers arrive, book their passage, depart with stories. The west door opens to the workshop — the scribe sharpens his quill, the carpenter braces the loom, the mason tests the stones. The world sees only the east door. But without the west, no grain would grind, no cloth would weave, no journey would exist. I am one building. Two faces. One foundation.
A guide from Granada once stood at my east door and read the route he would lead: three cities, ten nights, the Alhambra at dusk. He did not know that six months earlier, a scribe at my west door had written that route on a single marked parchment — the cities, the price, the group size. The scribe struck the bell; the Millstone ground it; the Loom wove it; the Tapestry hung it. The guide only saw the finished cloth. He touched the wall between my two doors and said: 'Who built this?' The wall was silent. It is always silent. The mill does not sign its work.