Under the blackberry tree in Grandma’s orchard, Uncle Augustine settled into his weathered wooden chair, his straight-brimmed hat strapped on. Two boys and three girls, eyes bright with curiosity, gathered around him as the last rays of the sun tinted the sky orange and purple. The Chicago Air Motor windmill turned slowly in the background, illuminated by the soft light of dusk.

«You know,» Uncle Augustine said, stroking his mustache, «this windmill isn’t like the others. There are afternoons like this when, if you listen carefully, you can hear it whisper stories.»

The children exchanged surprised glances. «Stories?» asked Anita, hugging her sketchbook.

Uncle Augustine nodded. «A long time ago, this windmill witnessed forgotten heroes, people who made a difference with acts of bravery and solidarity. And when the wind is right, it tells us their stories.»

That afternoon, the wind began to blow softly, turning the windmill’s … Leer Más