A wanderer climbed the tallest cliff each sunrise to weave clouds out of dreams shed during the night.
People who awoke after restless sleep often noticed that the morning sky carried faint traces of their forgotten wishes—pink threads of hope, blue streaks of fear, golden patches of longing.
One day, the Weaver fell ill, and no clouds appeared.
The sky remained perfectly empty, reflecting the world’s growing loneliness.
In desperation, villagers climbed the cliff and found a basket full of half-woven dreams. They clumsily knotted them together and lifted them to the heavens.
The sky brightened—not perfectly, but beautifully imperfect.
When the Weaver recovered, he told them:
“You finally learned that the sky belongs to all of us.”
About the Creator
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