By the time Lena finished, the windmill stood tall and proud, its blades spinning once more in the breeze. But it wasn’t just the windmill that had changed—Lena had too. The long hours of labor had taught her the value of persistence, and the joy of creating something with her own hands.
The windmill became more than a restored relic; it was a beacon. Lena transformed the inside into a community space, where locals could gather for small events, workshops, and storytelling nights—just as her grandfather had once done around the fire.
Looking up at the windmill one evening as the sun dipped below the horizon, Lena felt a deep sense of peace. Her grandfather had been right: beauty wasn’t something you found. It was something you made, one careful step at a time.