The Grinder at the Foot of Mulov Street

Stepan Volin sets his wheel up at the foot of Mulov Street every year once Harvestmonth turns its second half. Same corner, same crate to sit on, same rag tied over his knee so the sparks don’t catch. Today he has six sickles lined against the wall waiting their turn, and a seventh already gone thin from too many years on this same wheel.

He treadles with his right foot only. His left knee stopped bending true two winters back — he told me once, not complaining, just naming the fact the way he names everything. The blade goes on at an angle he doesn’t measure. He has done this so many times the angle measures itself.

A woman comes by with two kitchen knives, not sickles, and he takes them without a word about the difference. Coin first, always. He folds it into the pouch at his belt before he touches the stone. I asked him once why. He said a man who grinds first and asks after has already given something away.

Between customers he complains, mild, about cassia — his wife wanted it for the Restday bread, and the price at the Arcade had climbed past what she’d carry home. He doesn’t know why it climbed. He doesn’t ask why. He says only that the bread will be plainer this week, and goes back to the wheel.

By the time the light goes long and orange over the roofs, the six sickles are five, then three, then done. He sweeps the metal dust into a tin, the way he does every night, and empties it into the same drainage grate that has taken his shavings for eleven years. Nothing about this needs a record. He will be here again tomorrow, at the same hour, with whatever blades the harvest has dulled since.