On a small hill outside the village stood an old wooden windmill, its blades turning slowly for many long years. The villagers knew that its slow evening turn meant rest time was near.

There was a little boy named Karim who loved sitting beneath the windmill each evening with his grandfather, listening to its wooden blades make a soft, calm creak with every turn.

“This windmill ground wheat for my grandfather and yours before me,” said the grandfather, “and now it hums us to sleep every evening.” Karim closed his eyes and listened to the slow rhythm, imagining all the quiet nights the windmill had witnessed.

Karim returned home still hearing the echo of the windmill's turning in his ears. That night he slept feeling that the whole village — its trees, its houses, and its windmill — was resting quietly right along with him.