CHAPTER 1: The Hill That Did Not Rush the Wind

The windmill stood where it always had—above Halewood, beyond the last fence, where the land lifted gently before flattening into open fields.

Noah Bell reached the hill just after sunrise.

The path leading up was narrow, shaped by years of footsteps rather than planning. Grass leaned into it from both sides, brushing his boots as he walked. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of soil and early light.

The windmill was still.

Its blades rested at an angle that suggested pause rather than neglect.

Noah stopped a few steps away.

He had been told to “keep an eye on it.” Nothing more. No explanation of what that meant, or why it mattered. The request had come from the village council with the tone of something long agreed upon.

Some things were not questioned anymore.

Up close, the structure showed careful maintenance. Wood replaced where needed. Stone reinforced where time had tested it. Someone had cared for this place even after it stopped producing anything measurable.

Noah placed his hand against the door.

It was unlocked.

Inside, the windmill was quiet but intact.

The mechanisms were clean. The floor swept. A small stool rested near the wall, positioned deliberately near a narrow window that looked out over the fields.

No grain.

No tools.

Just space.

Noah sat.

The wind did not move.

The blades remained still.

And yet, the silence did not feel empty.

It felt observant.

Later that morning, Noah noticed something unusual.

As a woman crossed the hill path below—moving slowly, pausing once before continuing—the wind shifted.

Not strongly.

Just enough.

The blades turned once.

Then stopped.

Noah stood.

He stepped outside.

The air was calm again.

The woman did not look back.

The windmill returned to stillness.

Noah exhaled slowly.

The hill had not rushed the wind.

But it had noticed something.