Above the rooftops, a little fox in a scarf climbed the tallest hill and rang a bell made of shell and moonstone. One by one, the sleepy clouds floated over to him, carrying pockets full of dreams from all across the town.
Each cloud had a different habit. One hummed too loudly. One twirled in circles. One kept thinking about tomorrow's pancakes. The fox smiled and lined them up anyway. “No need to be perfect,” he told them. “Just follow the quietest cloud you can see.”
Across the dark-blue sky they drifted. The first cloud breathed slowly. The next copied it. Then the next. Soon even the pancake cloud had stopped spinning. Their thoughts still came, but they passed by like lanterns on a river.
When the caravan reached the silver side of the moon, the fox tucked every cloud into a soft shelf of starlight. Down below, the children of the town yawned, rolled over, and let the last bright thought drift away.
Rest does not arrive all at once. It comes as one calm breath follows another.
