Windmill and Nightingale

230110413 Class 4 Cynthia 康译尹

On the edge of a peaceful town, where golden wheat fields stretched like an ocean under the sun, stood an ancient windmill. Its weathered sails, though still, seemed to whisper secrets of the past. The townsfolk spoke of an old legend—that on nights when the moon hung full and bright, the windmill would stir to life, its wooden beams groaning as it turned, releasing a hauntingly beautiful melody into the air.  

The children of the town would gather at the edges of the field, their eyes wide with wonder, but the adults warned them sternly: "Do not go near. That windmill is bound by magic, and within its walls sleeps an ancient soul."

But Lily was not like the others.  

She was a girl of wild curiosity and fearless spirit, her heart brimming with dreams of adventure. While others hesitated, she longed to uncover the truth. And so, on a night when the moon bathed the land in silver, she slipped away from her home, her small feet carrying her through the whispering wheat until she stood before the towering windmill.  

The melody swirled around her—sweet, sorrowful, alive. It was not the creaking of old wood, but the song of a nightingale, trapped inside. Its voice was a ribbon of light in the darkness, so beautiful it ached. Lily pressed her hands against the windmill’s old planks, feeling the hum of magic beneath her fingertips.  

With a deep breath, she pushed open the small, cobwebbed window.  

The nightingale burst forth in a flutter of wings, its song soaring into the night, now freer, fiercer, more enchanting than before. It circled Lily once, twice, as if in gratitude, before alighting on the windmill’s highest sail. And then—something miraculous happened.

As the nightingale sang, the windmill’s great sails began to turn, groaning at first, then spinning smoothly, as if the bird’s voice alone were the wind that moved them.  

From that night on, the windmill was no longer a thing of fear. Under each full moon, Lily returned, and the nightingale sang, its voice weaving through the air like a spell. The townspeople, drawn by the music, gathered in the field, their hearts lifting as the windmill turned and the nightingale’s melody wrapped around them. It became a sacred tradition, a symphony of nature and magic.  

But not everyone saw the beauty in the old windmill.  

A wealthy land developer, eyes sharp with greed, saw only an obstacle—a crumbling relic standing in the way of his grand plans. He cared nothing for legends, nothing for the song that had bound the town together. He would tear it down.  

Lily, now grown, stood tall before him. The girl who had once crept through wheat fields was now a woman of strength and conviction. She rallied the townspeople, her voice ringing clear: "This windmill is not just wood and stone—it is our history, our magic, our heart."  

And the people rose with her.  

They came with petitions, with protests, with stories passed down through generations. They sang the nightingale’s song under the moon, their voices a chorus of defiance. The developer scoffed, but the deeper he dug, the more he saw—not just stubbornness, but ‘love’.  

And love, it turned out, was stronger than greed.  

Moved—or perhaps afraid of the town’s unbreakable spirit—the developer relented. The windmill remained, its sails still turning with the nightingale’s song.  

Years flowed like a river, and the legend grew. Travelers came from afar, drawn by tales of the singing windmill and the girl who had saved it. Lily, now silver-haired but bright-eyed, became the keeper of its stories, teaching the children to listen—not just to the nightingale’s song, but to the earth, to the past, to the magic that lived in the world around them.  

And so, the windmill stood—not as a relic of the past, but as a living memory. Its song, the nightingale’s flight, and Lily’s unwavering spirit became the eternal heartbeat of the town, echoing through time, forever.