The Cloud Weaver’s Daughter

High above the sleepy towns and quiet rooftops — higher even than the birds — there floated a cloud so big and white and soft that it looked like a mountain made of marshmallows. And on top of that cloud, every single night, sat a little girl named Nyla.

Nyla had long dark hair pinned up with a tiny golden star, and she wore a purple dress the colour of the sky just before nighttime. In front of her sat a magical golden loom — a frame of soft wood strung with shimmering threads in every colour you could imagine.

Nyla was a Cloud Weaver. Her job, passed down from her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother, was to weave dreams — one dream for every child sleeping below.

Each thread she wove was different. The golden threads made dreams of sunny picnics and flying on eagles. The pink threads made dreams of dancing with rabbits and eating cloud-shaped cookies. The purple threads made dreams of exploring castles and befriending dragons who breathed rainbow fire.

Nyla worked quickly, her small fingers moving faster than hummingbird wings, because she had hundreds and hundreds of dreams to finish before the sun came up.

One night, she was almost done when she heard a tiny voice from somewhere below her cloud.

“Hello? Is anyone up there?”

Nyla leaned over the fluffy edge and looked down. There, clinging to the bottom of her cloud with one tiny hand, was the most worried-looking boy she had ever seen. He was about six years old, with round glasses and messy hair that stuck up in five different directions.

“I fell out of my dream,” the boy said sadly. “And I can’t get back to sleep.”

Nyla smiled and pulled him up. His name was Oliver, and he explained that every night when he closed his eyes, the dreams just wouldn’t come. His mind kept buzzing like a jar full of bees.

“I think too much,” Oliver admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“That’s okay,” said Nyla gently. “Thinking is good. But sometimes, you have to give your thoughts a cozy place to rest.”

She sat Oliver beside her and handed him a small, soft thread — pale blue, the colour of early morning sky.

“What do you love most in the world?” she asked.

Oliver thought for a moment. “My dog, Biscuit. And building things. And Mum’s soup on rainy days.”

Nyla smiled and began to weave. The blue thread danced through the loom, twisting with gold and green and a warm, soupy orange. And slowly, right before Oliver’s eyes, a dream took shape — Biscuit running through a field, a tower they’d built together reaching up to touch a rainbow, and the smell of soup drifting on a gentle breeze.

Oliver’s eyes grew heavy.

“How do I keep the dreams from disappearing?” he mumbled, his head drooping.

“Think of the things you love,” Nyla whispered, “right as you close your eyes. That gives me the threads I need.”

Oliver nodded — once, twice — and then he was asleep, floating gently back down through the soft clouds, carried by the dream Nyla had made just for him.

Nyla watched him go, then turned back to her loom with a happy heart. She had hundreds more to make. And somewhere far below, in a warm bed, Oliver was already smiling in his sleep.