She ran home.
Nothing happened.
She first noticed it during the drought. The creek shrank to a muddy seam, and the village’s new electric pump coughed dust. Her grandmother, Amma, sent her to the mill with a clay pot. “Not for water,” Amma had said, pressing a fistful of dried dill seeds into her palm. “For a bargain.” dill mill
“Stop!” Anya shouted.
Amma was already filling a kettle. “A dill mill,” she said quietly. “It grinds not grain, but time. Give it a little, and it gives you a little water. But it always wants more.” She ran home
And the water, ever since, has tasted faintly of dill. ” Amma had said
The water rose in the basin, black and roiling. The millstone lowered.