The Singing Windmill of Kinderdijk

Whispers in the Wind

Kinderdijk was a place of water and wind. The canals stretched like veins through the land, their surfaces shimmering in the daylight, their depths hiding secrets beneath the reeds. The windmills, great wooden giants with arms like weary travelers, stood in neat rows, their sails cutting through the sky in a ceaseless rhythm.

For Lies, they were more than just mills. They were guardians—keepers of the land, storytellers who spoke in creaks and groans. Her father, Bartholomeus van der Meer, was the miller of one such windmill, and from the time she could walk, Lies had wandered its wooden floors, listening to its song.

But there was one windmill that no one tended. One that stood apart, at the edge of the marsh, abandoned and still.

The Singing Windmill.

Lies had heard the stories all her life.

“Stay away from that mill,” her mother warned. “It is not for curious children.”

“The windmill sings,” the older villagers would whisper, huddled around their evening fires. “It sings for those who are lost, for those who listen too closely.”

But what kind of song was it? And why did no one seem to know where it came from?

One evening, as Lies walked along the canal’s edge, she heard it for the first time.

A soft, lilting melody, barely louder than the breeze through the reeds. It was neither happy nor sad, neither welcoming nor frightening. It was simply... there.

She stopped, her heart pounding.

The melody wove through the air, wrapping around her like a whisper from something unseen.

She turned toward the windmill.

Its dark frame stood against the fading sky, its sails motionless. And yet, the song came from within.

That night, she made a decision.

She would go to the windmill. Alone.

A Journey into the Night

The house was silent when Lies slipped from her bed. She moved carefully, her breath held tight in her chest. Matthijs, her younger brother, slept soundly in the cot beside hers, his soft snores blending with the distant rustling of reeds.

Outside, the night was cool. A pale mist clung to the ground, swirling around her ankles as she made her way along the canal path. The moon hung low, casting silver light over the water, and in the distance, the windmill stood like a specter waiting in the dark.

The song had already begun.

It was faint, almost a whisper carried on the breeze, but it was there.

Lies hesitated at the door. The wood was old, weathered by time and elements, its iron hinges crusted with rust. She pressed a hand against it and pushed.

The door groaned open, revealing darkness.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and age. The great wooden gears of the windmill stood frozen, their edges covered in cobwebs.

Then, something caught her eye.

A small chest, half-hidden beneath a pile of cloth in the corner.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free. The lid was heavy, but with effort, she pried it open.

Inside lay a bundle of letters, their paper yellowed with time, their ink faded but still readable.

Lies picked up the topmost letter, her pulse quickening.

"To my dearest Anna,

If you are reading this, I have not returned. Do not weep for me, my love, but listen for my song on the wind."

The name struck her like a bell.

Anna.

Who was she? And what had happened to the man who wrote these words?

Lies clutched the letters to her chest.

She had to find out.

The Lost Love

The next morning, Lies hurried to the home of Oom Willem, the village historian. His house smelled of old parchment and pipe smoke, the walls lined with books and maps of Kinderdijk’s past.

When she showed him the letter, the old man’s hands trembled.

“Where did you find this?” he whispered.

She told him.

His face grew somber.

“This was written by Hendrik de Ruiter,” he said at last. “A miller’s apprentice. More than sixty years ago.”

And then he told her the story.

Hendrik had been in love with a woman named Anna de Vries. They had planned to marry, to start a life together in Kinderdijk. But before their wedding day, a storm struck.

The dikes were on the verge of breaking, the water rising too fast for the mills to keep up. Hendrik had been sent to tend the windmill on the far edge of the marsh—the one that now stood silent.

When the storm passed, the windmill still stood. But Hendrik was gone.

Anna had waited for him, her heart refusing to believe he was lost. And then the stories began—the stories of a song drifting from the windmill, a melody no one could explain.

“Some say it is his spirit,” Willem murmured. “That he never left. That he sings for Anna still.”

Lies' throat tightened.

What if the stories were true?

What if Hendrik was still waiting?

The Final Song

That evening, Lies returned to the windmill.

She stood at its base, clutching the letters. The wind was strong, tugging at her dress, carrying the scent of wet earth and autumn leaves.

She took a deep breath.

“Hendrik!” she called. “I have your words!”

The windmill creaked.

The song swelled, lifting into the night air, filling the space between earth and sky.

Lies opened the final letter and read aloud.

“I have kept my promise, my love. I have watched over our home, our people. But now, I must go. I must follow the wind and find my peace.”

The melody rose, then softened, then faded.

And then—silence.

A deep, settling silence, as if the wind itself had exhaled.

The windmill stood still. But it no longer felt lonely.

Lies smiled through her tears.

Hendrik was free.

Epilogue: The Wind Remembers

Lies grew older. The Singing Windmill became a story, told to children by the fireside.

But on quiet nights, when the wind whispered through the reeds, she sometimes heard a melody.

And she smiled, knowing the wind never forgets.