Don Quixote

Don Quixote could now recognize windmills perfectly. That was the problem. The city still expected him to charge, poets still needed a hero, and his blue armour had been polished for battle. His mechanical mount clicked impatiently beneath him. ‘Whose story are we entering?’ it asked.

Don Quixote pointed toward the windmills, then lowered his hand. ‘Not mine.’ They turned toward a road with no audience. At first the silence felt like failure. Then he heard the machine’s tired gears and stopped to oil them.

They reached a village where nobody knew his name and repaired a broken well without fighting it. No ballad was written. Water rose anyway. For the first time, the knight had done something useful that did not require him to look heroic.