Whispers in the Windmill

I never believed in village folklore. Not when I was a child running through the wheat fields, not when I left for the city at eighteen, and certainly not when I returned years later with more mistakes than belongings. But folklore has a strange way of waiting for you, especially in small places where stories cling to the air like dust.

Our village’s old windmill had always been part of those stories. It sat alone on a gentle hill, its white stone walls softened by age and its wooden blades faded by decades of weather. What made it unusual wasn’t its shape, but the way its blades spun backward whenever twilight settled in. People said it gathered the whispered regrets of the villagers, pulling them in like threads and weaving them into something useful. Something healing.

When I was young, the idea made me laugh. Adults spoke of it with a tone that hovered between belief and superstition, the way people mention ghosts in old houses. I never heard anyone admit they had visited the windmill. Not until I found myself needing it more than I cared to admit.

I returned home after an exhausting year in the city. I had made decisions that felt irreversible, chased opportunities that drained more than they gave, and ended a relationship that had quietly been unraveling for months. My mother welcomed me with a hug that lasted longer than it used to, and my father kept offering me tea as if hot water could fix a fractured life.

One evening, after dinner, I found myself wandering without aim. The sunset was brushing the sky with amber and lavender, and before I realized where my feet were taking me, I was climbing the old hill toward the windmill.

Its backward-spinning blades were already stirring, slow and steady, like a giant drawing breath.

I hesitated at the door, my hand resting on the worn wood. It felt foolish, stepping into a place that belonged more to myth than to reality. But my thoughts were heavy, and something about the soft turning of the blades felt inviting.

Inside, the air was cooler than outside. Dust floated in the warm light that seeped through the cracks. The windmill’s interior was simple: a wooden floor, a circular wall of stone, and above me the groaning machinery turning in reverse. There was no obvious magic, no glowing lights or whispering spirits.

But then I heard it.

A soft murmur, almost indistinguishable from the sound of turning gears. I closed my eyes, and slowly, the murmur sharpened into words.

Not clear sentences, more like threads of feelings. A mother regretting harsh words spoken too quickly. A teenager wishing they had apologized before a friendship fell apart. An elderly man longing to revisit the apology he owed his brother decades ago.

These were not dramatic confessions. They were quiet regrets, the kind that linger in the background of a life.

The more I listened, the more the murmurs changed. They began to blend into something steady, almost rhythmic. Advice. Not loud or commanding. Just gentle reminders, shaped from the regrets the windmill had gathered.

Tell people when they matter to you.
Do not be afraid to start over.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to return.

My throat tightened. I had spent months pretending that exhaustion was normal and that disappointment was something everyone simply swallowed. Hearing those soft threads of guidance felt like having someone place a warm hand on my shoulder.

For the first time in a long while, I let myself sit down on the wooden floor. I don’t know how long I stayed there, listening. The windmill never spoke directly to me — it offered no clear answers, no instructions — but the atmosphere inside made my thoughts clearer. I could see where I had been stubborn, where I had ignored my own needs, where I had pushed myself to the edge because I thought stopping meant failure.

Eventually, the blades began to slow. Twilight had deepened into early night, and the murmurs faded until all I could hear was the creaking of the windmill settling into stillness.

When I stepped outside, the hillside was bathed in cool blue light. The village looked small and quiet below, lanterns glowing behind windows. I felt lighter, not because my regrets had vanished but because they no longer felt like weights I had to carry alone.

In the days that followed, I noticed something new. People in the village rarely admitted it out loud, but every so often someone would return from that hill with a softer look in their eyes. A baker who finally forgave himself for closing shop early to rest. A teacher who reached out to an estranged sibling. My own mother, who after years of brushing off her own dreams, began talking about taking painting classes in the next town.

And me? I started making small changes. I apologized to a friend I had drifted away from. I allowed myself to slow down, to recalibrate. I began writing again — something I had abandoned because I felt I had nothing meaningful to say.

The windmill didn’t fix my life. It didn’t erase regret. But it did something quieter and perhaps more important: it reminded me that every regret holds a hidden piece of wisdom, and that listening — really listening — is a form of healing.

Some evenings I still walk up the hill, not to hear voices, but simply to sit beside the windmill as the blades turn backward in the fading light. And sometimes the wind carries a whisper that feels like it’s meant for me.

You can begin again.

And I do. Every day.