Lena had always been fascinated by the stories her grandfather told about the windmill. As a child, she would sit at his feet in the fading light of his farmhouse, listening to his deep, rumbling voice describe the seasons it had endured—the storms, the dry summers, and the way its blades had once turned tirelessly, grinding grain for the local farmers. But by the time she grew up, the windmill was little more than a hollow relic, its sails broken and its wooden beams warped with age.
When her grandfather passed away, Lena didn’t expect to inherit anything. But there it was, scrawled in his will: “To Lena, I leave the windmill. May it teach her what it taught me.”
At first, she felt overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. She had no idea how to fix a structure so old and fragile. The windmill stood on a hill just outside the village, abandoned for decades, its once-proud silhouette now crumbling against the horizon. Yet something about it called to her, just as it had called to her grandfather years before.
The first time Lena stepped inside, she was struck by the smell—dust, wood, and something faintly sweet, like dried hay. The floor was littered with debris—broken tools, bird nests, and forgotten relics from another time. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she noticed something else: carvings in the wooden beams. Her grandfather’s handwriting, etched into the grain. Messages like: “Work with your hands, and your heart will follow.” And “Beauty isn’t found; it’s made.