To Elara, it was a map of the invisible.
Today, Elara wasn’t here for nostalgia. The mill was being converted into loft apartments, and the HVAC system was a nightmare. The engineers had run simulations. The computers blinked red warnings. But Elara was old-school. She pulled out a stub of pencil and a ruler.
Her grandfather had called it "the wizard’s abacus." He had been a millwright here in 1957, back when this floor hummed with a thousand looms and the air was a thick, wet rope of heat and cotton dust. He taught her when she was nine: how dry-bulb temperature (the straight vertical lines) was just the obvious lie the thermometer told. Wet-bulb temperature (the diagonal lines sloping down to the right) was the truth of how much the air could weep. And relative humidity—those swooping parabolas—was the air’s current mood, its level of satisfied thirst.