Don Quixote

In the heart of a sunbaked town where the modern world met rusting traditions, lived an old man with a mind like a lantern in the fog. Everyone knew him—not for his wealth or status, but for the armor he wore, fashioned from scrap metal and car parts, and the rusting scooter he called his “noble steed.”

Alonzo De La Vega had once been a literature professor, until time and grief peeled back the layers of academia and left behind only a man with a library of forgotten worlds in his heart. He now called himself Don Quixote, and to him, the world was still filled with dragons, damsels, and noble quests.

Every morning, he rode through town in a crooked helmet, waving to shopkeepers and schoolchildren, quoting Cervantes as if they were gospel.

“Have courage, my friends! For reality is only what we allow it to be!”

Most smiled indulgently. Some laughed. A few pitied him. But no one could deny that the town felt different when he rode by—as though something magical stirred in the dust behind his wheels.


---

One cloudy morning, Don Quixote burst into Café Lucia, clutching a wrinkled map.

“I have found it!” he cried. “The lair of the dragon lies beyond the hills, near the abandoned wind turbines!”

“Again with the dragons?” Lucia asked, handing him his usual black coffee.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “This one guards a forgotten truth. A great treasure. And I must retrieve it.”

Sitting nearby, sixteen-year-old Marco rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing out there but weeds and rust.”

Don turned slowly. “Every story begins with disbelief. Even yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, you—squire in disguise, afraid of your own potential.” Don Quixote placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Come with me. Be the shield to my sword. See the world not as it is—but as it could be.”

Marco laughed, but something flickered in his chest. A small defiance. A yearning he didn’t want to name.


---

Two hours later, they stood at the base of the wind farm.

Giant turbines groaned in the breeze, towering like ancient titans.

“To you, they are machines,” Don said. “To me—they are wind giants. Keepers of forgotten battles.”

Marco crossed his arms. “Okay. So where’s this treasure?”

Don pointed to a crumbling bunker half-buried in dust. “There. Beneath the dragon’s shadow.”

They entered. Dust motes swirled in flashlight beams. Metal creaked. And then—they found it. A trunk. Inside: a stack of journals, photographs, and a medal.

“My wife’s,” Don whispered, lifting the medal with shaking hands. “She served… I buried this place after the war took her mind. I thought forgetting would heal me.”

Marco blinked. “This is your treasure?”

“No,” Don smiled. “This is the memory of who she was. This is why I ride.”


---

On the way back, they were silent. But something had changed.

The world looked different.

The wind turbines weren’t just turbines anymore. They were possibilities.


---

Weeks passed.

Don Quixote rode daily, but now with a companion.

Marco, now armed with a cardboard shield and a borrowed heart, became his “faithful squire.” Together, they “battled” injustice—fixing broken park benches, cleaning graffiti, delivering groceries to lonely elders.

People started to believe.

Not in dragons or giants.

But in something bigger.

Hope. Wonder. Imagination.

One day, Don didn’t show up.

Marco found him in his apartment, sitting by the window, armor by his side.

“I think my steed is tired,” Don said, smiling faintly. “Time for this knight to rest.”

Marco sat beside him. “But who will ride now?”

Don took his hand. “You will.”


---

And Marco did.

Years later, the town still tells stories of Don Quixote and his squire. A bronze statue now stands in the square: a knight in mismatched armor, holding out a helmet to a wide-eyed boy.

And every so often, on cloudy afternoons, children swear they see wind turbines bowing in the breeze.

Not machines.

Giants.