Pierre was completely lost. He no longer knew what day it was. He hadn't been diligent about marking the days on the calendar left by the previous owners in the entrance of his house. He only knew that it was autumn.

It wasn't hard to tell, it was almost always raining, often accompanied by strong winds. Fortunately, there hadn't been any more storms like the last one, which had left many trees fallen in its wake.

The beaches hadn't recovered from the storm, with some areas having lost all their sand. But the houses hadn't been spared either. Damaged roofs, broken shutters, fallen gates. One house had even been hit by a massive tree! The roof was torn off and part of the facade had collapsed. Miraculously, there were no deaths among the residents of Saint-Pabu.

The neighboring town of Landéda wasn't so lucky. A fishing boat with three sailors on board hadn't returned in time and had disappeared, and a man died at the height of the storm while trying to check on his cows.

Pierre's house had been spared. He only had minor damage in the garden. The greenhouse he had cobbled together with a large reinforced tarp and flexible plastic bars had also been damaged.

On this Sunday, no one was working. Most people used the day to take care of their homes, spend time with family, go to church, or do nothing at all. For Pierre, it was the perfect time to rest a little. He stayed in bed until his back started to hurt and then sat down for a meal.

The menu included pumpkin. Thanks to the seeds he had brought back from Paris, he had been able to create a nice vegetable garden. He had picked a big, colorful pumpkin the day before and cooked it into a soup. He had carefully saved the seeds, which could be traded for other things. His pumpkin had yielded many seeds, so he was in a good mood.

The soup he served himself was a beautiful orange color and smelled delicious. The only problem was that it lacked seasoning. There was none left in Saint-Pabu, and his precious seeds couldn't change that.

After a solitary and quick meal, Pierre left the house to join Dakota, who was joyfully waiting for him in the garden. She spent a lot of time there, but Pierre regularly took her for walks through the streets of the small town, on the beach, and near the fields surrounding Saint-Pabu.

Pierre equipped Dakota and mounted her. The mare seemed happy to go for a walk and neighed joyfully as they passed through the gate separating the house from the street. The street was deserted and still filled with leaves and broken branches. The residents had simply cleared the obstacles from the road to make it easier to get around, but nothing had been picked up. They formed little piles on the sidewalks, where broken-down cars were also parked.

The air was heavy with moisture, but it wasn't raining. The asphalt was wet, indicating that it had rained earlier. A light, cool wind from the west caressed the stern face of the rider. The day before, he had gone to the barber, so he no longer had his thick hair and unruly beard. He seemed to have rejuvenated by ten years now that he was clean-shaven.

There was no special occasion to justify such a change; he simply wanted to have a clean chin and cheeks after a long period. As for his hairstyle, it was somewhat reminiscent of his school days. Although a bit longer on top, no strand was long enough to reach his eyebrows.

After leaving the barber shop, he felt good.

It's not warm this afternoon... I'm glad I took my coat.

Pierre was indeed wearing his long black coat, the same one he wore when he arrived in Saint-Pabu. At the time, he also wore a shiny cuirass dating back to the Napoleonic era. Since then, he had never put it on again, as he never felt threatened. It stayed in his room with his other belongings.

However, he always took his cavalry saber with him whenever he went out. It was attached to his belt and lightly tapped against his thigh with every movement Dakota made as they walked through the deserted streets.

Even though danger seemed far from this small town, it wasn't absent. One could never be too sure, not since the world had descended into chaos. Despite its peaceful appearance, Saint-Pabu couldn't completely isolate itself from the world.

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Sometimes, people came to steal their food. They had even stolen cows!

If some thieves had been caught, many times they had managed to escape with their loot. This had led the mayor to make a decision she had wanted to avoid: creating a militia.

It wasn't large, naturally, nor equipped like those in big cities, but it was all they could do for now. It was just about ten volunteers organized into two teams of five, taking turns so that there was always one team patrolling at night. Thus, while one team patrolled, which Pierre and many residents felt was insufficient, the other rested.

Pierre crossed all of Saint-Pabu, passing in front of the church. It was more frequented than before, but Pierre had no intention of stepping inside. He continued on his way until he reached the town's outskirts. It was marked by a small sign bearing the town's name crossed out with a large red stripe.

A bit away from the last houses, on the edge of a field, a group of men were gathered around a strange wooden structure. There were about a dozen of them, of all ages. Pierre knew what they were building, but he had to admit that for now, it didn't look like much.

Out of curiosity, he directed his mount in that direction. He was ignored by most of the men, but one of them joyfully approached him as soon as he saw him.

Yvon, like the others, had sacrificed his Sunday to come here early.

"Hi, Pierre! How are you?"

"I'm fine, and you?" Pierre replied without dismounting.

"Not bad. Hey, have you seen? We've made good progress, right? Well, we've only done the base and the hardest part is yet to come, but it's better to take our time and do things right than to rush and have to start over."

Pierre nodded while observing the windmill's structure. Though the basic operation was complex, as it required making gears to transform wind energy into mechanical movement driving two millstones, it was planned to make the structure mobile so that the windmill could operate at full potential regardless of the wind direction.

"Want to give us a hand?" Yvon suggested, adjusting his coat as it started to rain.

Pierre hesitated for a long time, as he had never built anything in his life.

Well, they must be like me. There's a first time for everything. And the sooner we have a windmill, the sooner we'll have flour to make bread.

"Okay," Pierre said as he dismounted. "What can I do to help?"

Yvon was surprised that Pierre accepted so easily. He expected him to politely decline and leave. A slight smile formed on his face, worn by the attacks of the sun at sea and the salt.

"What?" grumbled Pierre, seeing his friend seemingly mock him.

"Nothing, nothing at all. Come, I'll show you where we're at."

A plan had been drawn on a large sheet of laminated paper, originally a poster to promote the region to tourists. The windmill was to be entirely made of wood and stand on three levels. It was supposed to look like a tall cabin perched on a pyramidal base. The entire upper part was meant to rotate. On the highest level, there would be heavy round stones to grind the grain, then it would fall to the intermediate level to be sifted to remove the coarsest waste. On the first level, a coarse but usable flour would be collected.

"Pierre, let me introduce you to Samuel Gautier. He is a geography and history teacher at the middle school."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

"He is the one who contributed the most to this plan's construction."

"You're exaggerating, Yvon. Without Patrick and Hervé's help, it would have remained drawings with many errors."

Samuel Gautier was a mature man over fifty. His hair was completely white, and he wore thick glasses to compensate for his poor vision. He was a very cultured person who loved reading history books. He had an impressive library at home, rivaling the school's in size.

His favorite period was the Middle Ages, so it was natural for him to have many books on that era. Among his books, there was one that detailed agricultural advancements of that period. It was in this book that he found a description and diagram of a windmill.

It certainly wasn't a very elaborate model, but that wasn't important. It was urgent to grind the wheat they had harvested at the end of summer if they didn't want it to rot due to the moisture in the air. The longer they waited, the greater the risk.

According to Samuel, they had already passed the best period to grind the grain.

As for Patrick and Hervé Le Roux, they were two brothers who had founded their own carpentry business. They proudly said that wood was their trade. Without their machines, they had almost lost everything. But their passion remained. Above all, like any self-respecting Breton, they were very stubborn and didn't shy away from any challenge.

When they were told about building a windmill, they almost jumped for joy and immediately agreed to participate. All the wood used so far came from them. For now, they had enough, but they knew that one day they would have to go back to cutting it the old-fashioned way, with an ax and saw. Transforming a trunk into planks and beams would still be a huge challenge.

As for the other people present, they were ordinary individuals simply wanting to be part of a unique project. Despite the fatigue and the enormity of the task, none of them had given up.

Pierre shook hands with each of them and unfastened his saber from his belt before joining the group, a strange feeling of excitement in his heart.