The morning wind kicked up grit as Mikhail stepped off the bus, boots hitting the crumbling pavement with a dull thud. A delivery truck rumbled past, horn blaring, the driver scowling at the man blocking the shoulder. Mikhail didn't flinch. His eyes were locked ahead, where a sagging wire fence barely stood upright beneath a faded board: Concrete Plant & Land for Sale – Inquire Within. The lot beyond it was overgrown with weeds and flanked by rusting silos that had long since stopped breathing dust.
He adjusted the strap on his satchel and walked. The scent of limestone drifted faintly through the air, a mix of memory and opportunity. As he neared the gate, the gravel crunched beneath his boots. A man stood just beyond the fence, arms folded, watching. Graying hair curled beneath a battered cap, and his work boots were the kind that had survived years of punishment.
"Name's Lars Grunwald," the man said before Mikhail could speak, his tone flat. "You're not from around here."
Mikhail offered a firm smile. "No. But I've been here before."
Lars gave him a once-over. "You don't look like the type to buy this dump. Got city hands."
"I'm here because I know exactly what this land is worth. And what it could be worth again."
Lars chuckled dryly. "Everyone says that. Usually right before I tell them to get lost."
Mikhail stepped closer to the gate and looked past the rusted chain links. The property was a mess, rebar piles, collapsed scaffolding, cracked concrete slabs, but he saw past all of it. He saw production lines humming, trucks lined up, workers shouting over the churn of gravel. He saw profit, contracts and leverage.
"This isn't just a dead plant," Mikhail said, voice even. "There's a quarry on-site. Limestone. Your costs dropped by thirty percent before anyone touched the mixer."
That made Lars raise an eyebrow. "And how would you know that?"
"I studied it." He paused. "Ten years ago."
The man snorted, but curiosity had replaced hostility in his stance. "And what, you kept a scrapbook of forgotten cement plants?"
"I kept notes," Mikhail replied. "And I ran simulations."
He pulled a folded sheet from his satchel, something he'd worked on the night before, reconstructed from memory. A crude table outlining production volume, local hauling routes, basic material margins. He handed it over.
Lars unfolded the page slowly. His eyes scanned it. Then again. "Huh."
"I want the land," Mikhail said. "And I want your help restoring it."
Lars folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "You've got guts, DuPont. But I don't run charity cases. I've had three kids walk through here with startup dreams and zero grit."
"Then don't treat me like them," Mikhail said evenly. "Treat me like someone who's already seen this fail. And knows exactly what not to do."
A long pause. Lars looked at the sky, then the plant, then back to Mikhail. "Follow me."
He turned and walked toward the gate's lockbox, boots scuffing dry gravel.
Mikhail didn't wait. He stepped in behind him.
The gate groaned open on its rusted hinges, metal scraping like a reluctant warning. Mikhail followed Lars in silence as they crossed into the belly of the lot. The air changed inside the fence, more still, heavier with dust and the stale breath of forgotten ambition. Every step crunched gravel and broken concrete underfoot, and the skeletal remnants of the concrete plant loomed ahead, casting long shadows in the late morning light.
Lars led the way toward a warped steel door hanging half-off its hinge. "Watch your step," he muttered, ducking beneath a sagging lintel. Inside, it was cooler. Dim. Dust swirled through shafts of sunlight like ghosts dancing through the hollowed structure.
Mikhail's eyes adjusted, sweeping across the interior. The place was a corpse: corroded machines, shattered glass panels, a conveyor belt frozen in mid-sag. But beneath the decay, the bones were strong. The layout was tight, functional. With the right crews, the right schedules… it could run again.
"Been like this since '98," Lars said, kicking aside a discarded pipe. "Company pulled funding after a deal fell through. Left me with a bad mortgage and a worthless lot."
"Then why are you still here?" Mikhail asked.
"Because I remember what this place looked like when it was alive." Lars turned toward him. "You think you're the only one chasing ghosts, DuPont?"
That landed harder than Mikhail expected.
He walked deeper into the room, stepping over an old cable spool. The smell of oil and rust stung his nose. He stopped at a wall where half-faded markings still outlined the batching schedule from years ago, daily volumes, water ratios, slump targets. He ran his fingers across it. Time hadn't wiped it away. Not yet.
"You said you ran simulations," Lars called from behind.
"I did. I remembered every flaw." Mikhail turned, voice steady. "The mixer belts worn unevenly. The aggregate hoppers weren't shielded against rain. The foundation on the north end" he pointed, "it's cracked from frost swelling. You can still see the fault lines."
Lars gazed. "So either you're a very good guesser, or you've seen this place before."
"I told you I've been here," Mikhail said quietly.
The older man didn't respond. Just stared for a long moment, then stepped past Mikhail and yanked a tarp off something near the corner. Beneath it: an old blueprint table, legs buckled but intact. Rolled tubes of drawings rested inside its rusted cage.
"This still matters to me," Lars said, his voice different, now softer, touched with regret. "But if I let it go, I'm not putting it in the hands of a dreamer."
Mikhail met his gaze. "Good. Because I'm not one."
They stared at each other, the silence filled with groaning steel and distant bird calls.
Finally, Lars gave a grunt. "Alright. Show me your schedule. And tell me how you plan to beat the three-week haul time for cement powder."
Mikhail's eyes sparked.
"I don't," he said. "We don't haul. We grind it ourselves."
Lars blinked. "On-site milling?"
"If we rebuild the kiln."
"That's not a small ask."
"I'm not here for small," Mikhail replied, pulling the quarry map from his satchel. "I'm here to scale."
Lars exhaled through his nose, long and slow. Then, he nodded once.
"Come back tomorrow," he said. "Bring me numbers."
Mikhail's hand clenched around the map as Lars turned and walked toward the plant's rear exit.
Behind them, something metal shifted with a hollow clang