It was a warm Sunday afternoon. The windmill turned lazily as the golden rays of the sun filtered through the branches of the blackberry tree. The children sat on the grass, forming a semicircle in front of Uncle Augustine, who was resting on his wooden bench with a sprig of wheat in his mouth and his hat tilted back.

Tomás, the most curious of the group, raised his hand and asked:

«Uncle Augustine… what will the world be like in a hundred years?»

The old farmer smiled slowly, like someone discovering an old question stored in his memory. He adjusted his suspenders, looked toward the windmill, and then at the sky, which was beginning to turn orange.

«A hundred years? Quite a question, boy…» he said. «Well, if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you what the north wind whispered to me as it passed through the windmill’s blades.»

The children settled more comfortably. Even Grandma Maria, who was in the kitchen, peeked her head out the window, smiling.

«Imagine a world where people talk to each other through small mirrors that fit in your pocket,» said Uncle Augustine. «Not letters, not telegrams… but words that fly through the air like mosquitoes.»

The children’s eyes widened.

«And how do they see themselves?» asked Sofia.

«As if you were looking into a clear pond. You can see someone else’s face even if they’re on another continent. And there will be trains that fly, and cars that don’t make any noise, and lights everywhere, even on their shoes. But there will also be people who, despite having all that, will feel very alone.»

The children remained silent. Only the crickets’ chirping could be heard.

«Why, Uncle?» asked Rita.

«Because they’ll forget how to listen. From sitting like that, under a tree.» To look into their eyes and say, «I’m here, with you.» Many will run, but they won’t know where they’re going.

At that moment, a sudden wind stirred the leaves of the tree. The windmill, which had been almost motionless, began to spin vigorously, even though there was no visible breeze. A soft glow, like stardust, fell from the sky and seemed to envelop the children.

They instinctively closed their eyes… and then they saw it.

A shining city, with glass towers and flickering lights. People talking to themselves, walking with earplugs. Children in front of light boxes, moving their fingers without ever getting dirty with dirt. Grandparents looking at screens to see their grandchildren who live far away.

But they also saw something else.

A girl hugging her dog in the middle of a storm. A boy watering a plant in an old pot. An old woman teaching how to make bread. And a group of children under a huge tree, listening to a man in a hat telling them a story.

When they opened their eyes, the glow was gone. The mill returned to its peaceful rhythm. Uncle Agustín was still there, but now with his eyes closed and a half-smile beneath his mustache.

«Maybe this is what the future will look like… or maybe not,» he murmured. «But if you grow up with respect, with love for the land and for people, then the world of tomorrow will be beautiful. Because no matter how modern the future is… it will always need good hearts.»

Grandmother Maria came out with a tray of bread and a bowl of fresh water.

«Something tells me important things were discussed,» she said, as she handed out pieces of bread.

Tomás took his, but said nothing. He just looked toward the mill and then at the tree.

«I…» he said softly, «want to plant a tree tomorrow.»

And that night, under the starry sky, no one spoke of the future again. Because somehow, everyone knew… that it had already begun.