The Night Watchman at Elm Mill

Clara worked the late shift at the Elm Textile Mill and knew all its sounds by heart. One evening, as the giant looms fell silent, she heard a low, clear whistle from the far end of the empty weaving room. The tune was old and sad, a melody her grandfather might have known.

Another night, she arrived before dawn to find the main floor cloaked in deep shadow. As she flipped the main power switch, she saw for just a moment the outline of a tall man standing by the office door, a silhouette cast by no visible light. Before she could call out, the shape was gone.

The other workers had their own tales. They spoke of tools being found neatly arranged where they had been left in disarray, and of the feeling of a calm presence overseeing the work. They liked to think it was the first night watchman, a man named Arthur, who had loved the mill like a home and was just making his rounds, ensuring everything was in order.