CHAPTER 2: When the Blades Moved Without Weather

Word did not spread quickly in Halewood.

It never had.

But it spread steadily.

By the third day, people were walking the hill path more often—not directly to the windmill, not with intent, but with curiosity shaped like patience.

Noah observed without comment.

An older man climbed the path near midday and stopped beneath the windmill’s shadow. He removed his hat, held it briefly, then placed it back on his head and continued walking.

The blades did not move.

The man did not seem disappointed.

Later, a pair of siblings reached the top together.

They spoke quietly, stopped near the door, then turned back toward the village without entering. As they descended, the wind stirred faintly.

The blades rotated once.

Then again.

Slow.

Measured.

Noah did not touch anything.

He did not interfere.

He watched.

That evening, he found a small notebook resting on the stool inside the windmill.

It had not been there before.

The pages were blank, except for the first line written neatly at the top:

Not every turning means forward.

Noah closed the book gently.

As sunset colored the fields, the windmill stood calm again, its blades resting as they had that morning.

But Noah understood now.

The windmill was not responding to the sky.

It was responding to moments.

And whatever role he had been given here was not to make it move—

but to notice when it did.