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High above the quiet valley of Willowdrift, a small round cloud named Mumble floated slowly, carrying a woven basket tucked under his soft edge. Inside the basket were not apples or bread, but lullabies — gentle hums and whispered songs he had gathered from gardens, rivers, and rustling trees all day long.
Every evening, when the sun tucked itself behind the hills, Mumble drifted low over Willowdrift and opened his basket just a little. Out floated soft notes of music, drifting down like feathers, settling over rooftops and through open windows.
In one small house, a girl named Nadia lay in bed, still wide awake, listening to the wind. When Mumble's lullaby drifted through her window, it sounded like her grandmother's humming, and her eyes grew heavy and warm.
Mumble floated on, sprinkling his gentle songs over sleepy puppies curled in baskets, tired old cats on windowsills, and babies rocked slowly in their cribs. Each lullaby was different — one sounded like rain, another like soft bells — but all of them said the same thing: rest now, you are safe.
By the time the moon rose fully round and silver, Mumble's basket was empty and light, and all of Willowdrift was fast asleep. He yawned a cloudy yawn, curled up beside the moon, and drifted off too, dreaming of tomorrow's new lullabies to gather.
