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High above the world, where the air was always cool and fresh, and the sun painted the sky in magnificent hues of orange and pink at dawn, lived Nimbus, a little cloud. He wasn’t a big, boisterous storm cloud, nor a tiny, wispy one that vanished with the morning sun. Nimbus was just right: a plump, fluffy, gentle cloud, soft as a whispered secret and as quiet as a falling snowflake. He spent his days drifting, floating, and dreaming, wrapped in the endless blue blanket of the sky. He had no edges, no corners, just soft, rounded curves that changed shape with every breath of the silent, upper-air currents. His home was the vast, open expanse, a place of peace and profound quiet, where the loudest sound was often the gentle sigh of the wind or the distant, muffled rumble of a very big, very faraway cloud.
Nimbus loved the sky. He loved how the first rays of morning sunlight would tickle his misty edges, making him glow with a soft, pearly light. He loved how the midday sun made him feel warm and buoyant, like a grand, fluffy pillow floating effortlessly in a sea of sapphire. And most of all, he loved the twilight, when the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with farewell colours, and the first shy stars began to twinkle like tiny, faraway dreams. It was during these quiet twilight hours that Nimbus felt most alive, most curious.
He was a young cloud, as clouds go, and unlike the older, wiser clouds who had seen many seasons and knew all the secrets of the winds and the rains, Nimbus was still full of wonder. He would often drift to the very edge of the great cloud family, peering down at the world below. From so high up, everything looked like a miniature painting. The rivers were silvery ribbons, the mountains were crinkled brown blankets, and the forests were vast, dark green carpets. But what fascinated Nimbus most were the tiny, flickering lights that began to appear as darkness deepened. They were like scattered jewels, appearing first one by one, then in clusters, growing brighter as the sun’s last glow faded.
“What are those lights?” Nimbus would softly whisper to the passing breeze, who, being old and very wise, often had no time for chattering.
“Those, little cloud,” the breeze would finally sigh, if it was in a particularly gentle mood, “are the lights of homes. Of people and creatures settling down for the night.”
Homes. The word sounded so warm, so cozy. Nimbus imagined tiny, soft beds, glowing hearths, and gentle voices humming lullabies. He wondered what it felt like to be tucked inside one of those small, safe places. Up here, he was safe, of course, wrapped in the vast embrace of the sky, but it was a different kind of safety, a grand, open kind. He longed to know the quiet, tucked-in safety of the world below.
One evening, as the stars began to pop out like little diamonds on a velvet cloth, Nimbus saw something new. A faint, golden glow, very low on the horizon. It wasn’t the sun, for the sun had long since gone to bed. It was round and full, casting a gentle, silver light that turned the edges of the clouds into shimmering lace.
“What is that magnificent light?” Nimbus asked, his misty form trembling with awe.
A wise old cloud, whose name was Cumulus, and who had seen countless nights, drifted closer, his form large and comforting. “That, little one,” Cumulus rumbled gently, his voice like the softest thunder, “is the Moon. She is the guardian of the night, a silent watcher, a bringer of dreams.”
The Moon. Nimbus gazed at her, mesmerized. She hung in the sky, serene and radiant, casting a path of liquid silver across the quiet world. He felt a deep sense of calm wash over him, a feeling he hadn’t known before. It was as if the Moon was humming a soft, silent lullaby just for him, and for all the world settling down to sleep.
Nimbus spent the rest of the night watching the Moon, her soft glow comforting him as he drifted. He saw the stars blink like sleepy eyes, and he heard the faint, distant sounds of the world below settling. A faraway owl’s hoot, the gentle rustle of leaves, the quiet murmur of a stream. Everything seemed to be preparing for rest. He felt a gentle pull, a yearning to be part of that quiet, sleepy world, to understand its rhythm and its peaceful hush.
As the deepest part of the night settled, Nimbus felt a new kind of wonder bloom within his soft, cloudy heart. He wasn’t just a cloud drifting aimlessly; he was a silent observer, a witness to the world’s most peaceful hours. He began to feel a very soft, very gentle purpose forming within him, like a tiny seed planted in his misty core. He wanted to learn more about the night, about the sleepy world, and about the beautiful, comforting Moon. He wanted to be a part of the quiet magic that unfolded when everyone else was asleep. With that peaceful thought, Nimbus drifted deeper into the sky, his form glowing softly with the reflected light of the Moon, already dreaming of the new things he would discover when the next twilight arrived. His cloud-heart felt full, and his misty form felt light, ready for whatever quiet adventure the sleepy sky would bring. And so, Nimbus, the little cloud, began his watch, a gentle guardian of the night, even before he knew he was one.
