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In the small village of Bramblewick, a little girl named Tansy loved to watch the sky turn peach and lavender each evening. One night, something soft and silver drifted down from the clouds and landed gently in her garden — a tiny, fluffy creature no bigger than a teacup, blinking up at her with sleepy starlight eyes.
The little cloud-sprite, who called himself Puffling, had drifted too far from his cloud family while chasing a shooting star. He sniffled softly, worried he would never find his way back up to the sky where his family drifted, waiting for him.
Tansy remembered her grandmother's stories about an old kite tucked away in the attic — one stitched with silver moon-thread, said to carry lost cloud-sprites home if someone sang a gentle song while flying it. Together, they climbed to the attic, found the dusty kite, and carried it out beneath the rising moon.
As Tansy hummed a soft lullaby and ran across the meadow, the kite's silver threads began to glow like tiny stars. Puffling giggled with delight, floated up along the shining string, and gave one last happy wave before drifting gently into the arms of his waiting cloud family above.
That night, as Tansy climbed into bed, she noticed the clouds outside her window shimmering faintly, as if waving thank you. She smiled, snuggled beneath her blanket, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of kites, clouds, and quiet magic in the sky.
