Chapter 21 – The Windmill
The wind had changed.
It whistled through the trees in slow, haunting breaths, carrying the scent of rain and salt from the distant sea. Erica climbed the narrow trail that curved upward along the ridge, following the old power lines just as Dylan's note had said.
Each wire sagged from years of neglect. Some had snapped completely, dangling like dead veins against the pale morning sky. The earth beneath her boots was soft, scattered with moss and old footprints that looked too faded to follow.
She didn't stop. Not once.
The trail opened into a clearing, and there — standing alone against the dawn — was the windmill.
Its wooden frame leaned slightly to one side, half-consumed by vines and rust. One of the blades creaked lazily in the breeze, turning just enough to break the silence.
Erica's breath caught.
This was it.
She hesitated before stepping inside. The door hung loosely on its hinges, groaning as it swung open. Dust spiraled in the air like ghosts of the past. The scent of oil, wood, and age filled her lungs.
Inside, light filtered through the broken panels, falling across old machinery — gears, pulleys, and a rusted generator that hadn't worked in decades. A staircase led upward into darkness.
She reached into her bag for the small flashlight Dylan had given her. When she turned it on, the beam cut through the gloom, glinting off something metallic near the far wall.
A steel box, bolted to the floor.
Her heart quickened.
The same model of container Dylan had once used during his missions.
Erica knelt beside it, wiping away the layer of dust until the keypad came into view. She remembered how he worked with these — six digits, always coded with meaning.
Her mind raced through every number connected to him.
Birthdays. Coordinates. File names.
Then she remembered his words: "They only win if you stop moving."
That line came from his old unit's motto — and the digits associated with it were… 431207.
She entered it.
The lock clicked open.
Inside the box was a folder, a small voice recorder, and a photograph — Dylan standing beside her father in a research facility. They looked younger, both in lab coats, both smiling.
Erica's throat tightened. She reached for the recorder and pressed play.
A soft static filled the air, followed by Dylan's voice — low, tired, but steady.
"If you're hearing this, it means they know you're alive.
Your father and I tried to shut them down — Project ECHO was never meant to go this far.
But they used his research to develop predictive AI models that could simulate entire lives — including yours.
You weren't supposed to find out this way, Erica, but you were part of the prototype testing. That's why they tracked your patterns from childhood — to refine the system."
He paused, the faint sound of him breathing audible over the tape.
"The data drive you have is the key to stopping them. But you can't trust anyone in the division. Not even the ones who claim to help. The only person who can decode it completely… is me.
And if I'm not with you yet, I'm still alive — working my way back.
Find the black notebook. It's hidden beneath the floorboards."
The tape clicked off.
Erica sat there frozen, the room spinning slowly around her. The idea that her entire life — her memories, her choices — might have been part of some system's prediction was too much to process.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, forcing herself to breathe.
Then she remembered his last instruction.
The black notebook.
She pushed the box aside and knelt on the floor, tapping the boards lightly until one gave a hollow sound. With her knife, she pried it open — and there it was: a small, leather-bound journal covered in dust.
The first page bore her father's handwriting.
The last page — Dylan's.
Her eyes darted over the final lines:
"They thought they could predict us. But love, grief, and choice — those can't be programmed. If you're reading this, you're proof of that."
Tears blurred the words.
She didn't notice the faint light blinking at the top of the windmill — a motion sensor activating, sending a signal somewhere far away.
Meanwhile, several miles south, Dylan stirred awake inside a dimly lit storage container. His wrists were bound, but his mind was clear.
He had escaped worse.
And if the sensor had gone live, it meant Erica found the windmill.
He smiled faintly despite the pain in his shoulder.
"They found you, didn't they," he whispered. "Good girl."
He shifted his weight, testing the chains. Outside, the muffled sound of footsteps echoed — the same men who had been after them since the beginning. But Dylan wasn't worried.
He knew something they didn't.
Erica wasn't just running anymore.
She was learning.
And soon, she would be the one they couldn't predict.
As the night deepened again, the windmill stood alone — silent, watching, waiting for the storm that was about to come.
To be continued....
By chizzy