Where the Clouds Learned Her Name
She rested her cheek in her palm as if holding her own face in place, afraid it might drift off like everything else had. The sky above her was unfinished. Clouds sketched lightly, unsure if they wished to exist or evaporate.
They followed her everywhere.
Not the kind of clouds that rained or thundered, but soft, wandering ones that carried thoughts instead of water. They whispered memories she had forgotten she’d lost. The smell of dust after summer. A voice calling her in before dark. A name she used to answer to, once.
Sometimes the clouds pressed close, curling around her head, brushing her ears as if trying to tell her something important. She never quite caught the words. They slipped away the moment she listened too hard.
Her eyes were pale with looking inward. Her mouth stayed gently open, like she was always on the verge of saying something honest, and then choosing silence instead.
The marks on her skin were small repairs. Stitches from moments when the world tugged too hard and she nearly came apart. She wore them without shame. Proof she had been handled, broken, and put back together by time itself.
One afternoon, a cloud leaned low and spoke clearly.
You are still here.
She inhaled. The air tasted like wet paper and memory. Her fingers tightened against her cheek, grounding herself. The cloud thinned, lightened, and drifted upward, satisfied.
She smiled then. Not wide, not bright, but real.
And for the first time, the sky began to clear, leaving just enough cloud behind to remind her: she was never alone in her quiet.
