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The morning air smelled faintly of damp earth

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and sweet, crushed petals.

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Bram pushed open the heavy oak door of

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the mill,

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wincing slightly as the old timber groaned in

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greeting.

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Outside, the Dutch countryside stretched endlessly beneath a

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brilliant,

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cloudless expanse of blue sky.

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For three generations, Bram's family had tended the

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giant sails

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of the historic brick architecture that anchored this

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rural landscape.

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Today, however, the landscape was alive with a

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riot of color.

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Rows upon rows of tulips, crimson, saffron, and

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violet,

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marched in immaculate stripes toward the horizon,

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glowing like spilled jewels in the early sunlight.

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Bram climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the

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cat floor,

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his boots falling into a familiar rhythm.

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He adjusted the wooden brake lever, feeling the

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sudden,

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satisfying tension as the great oak shaft engaged.

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Through the narrow, multi -paned window,

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he watched the detailed windmill blades catch the

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coastal breeze.

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They began to turn with a deep, resonant

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hum,

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sweeping through the air like the hands of

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a giant clock

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measuring out the spring.

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Down below, the vibrant field swayed in unison

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with the motion above,

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a living mosaic of agriculture and history.

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Bram smiled, adjusting his sleeves as he set

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to work,

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knowing that as long as the wind blew

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across these flat fields,

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the heart of the countryside would keep beating.