⏱ ~4 min reading
High up in the sky, where the clouds floated slowly like sleepy fish in a quiet pond, lived the Moon. At night it shone for all the children on earth. And during the day it would rest in its heavenly cradle, soft and fluffy.
Everyone knows: when the sun shines, the Moon sleeps. And when it gets dark, it wakes up and goes to work. It's always been that way.
But one day this happened.
The moon finished its night shift. The stars yawned one by one and hid behind the clouds. The sun began to rise from behind the distant mountains, pink and sleepy. The moon climbed into its celestial cradle, pulled a blanket of fog over its shoulder and closed its silver eyes.
But sleep did not come.
The moon turned to the right barrel. Then to the left. Then to his back. The cradle rocked softly—once, twice, once, twice—and he still couldn't fall asleep.
"What is this?" the Moon whispered to himself.
He tried to count the stars. One star, two stars, three stars… He got lost at the seventh. He started again. At the fifth he forgot where he had stopped. The stars silently twinkled at him from beyond the horizon.
The moon sighed softly. He felt a little sad. After all, he had been so tired during the night — shining his light over the babies' cradles, peering into the windows, and seeing the sleepy kittens home. Now he wanted to rest. But he couldn't.
And then a little cloud flew to him. Round as a pillow, with white-white sides. She sat on the edge of the cradle and looked at the Moon with her gentle little eyes.
“Are you awake?” the cloud asked in a whisper.
"I can't sleep," the Moon admitted. "I can't.".
The cloud thought for a moment. Then it moved closer and gently covered the Moon with its fluffy edge, like a blanket.
“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?” she offered. “That’s what my cloud mother used to do when I was very tiny.”.
The moon nodded slowly. His silver eyelashes drooped slightly.
The little cloud closed its eyes and sang. Quietly, barely audible. That's how rivers sing in the evenings, when they purr against the stones. That's how a warm breeze whispers in a sleepy field. That's how a mother breathes over her baby's cradle.
She sang about the warm summer wind that sways the wheat ears. About the sleepy flowers that have folded their petals and closed their yellow centers. About the river that slowly carries its waters to the sea and sings a lullaby to the pebbles along the way. About the little kitten that curled up in a ball on the stove and purrs to itself.
The moon listened. His eyelids grew heavier. At first a little. Then a little more.
He yawned. Once. Quietly, quietly.
Then again, longer.
The little cloud continued to sing, carefully, as if stroking a feather on a bird's back. She sang about her mother's warm hands, about the gentle light of the table lamp, about a pillow that smelled of chamomile and sleep.
The moon closed its silver eyes. Completely.
His breathing became even and slow, like the waves of a calm sea. The cradle rocked ever so slightly. The cloud quietly covered him even more tightly and sat down beside him, not flying away.
In his dream, the Moon saw you. Yes, exactly you. He saw how you too lay in your crib. How your pillow smelled of warmth. How your mother had already turned off the big light and left only a small yellow flashlight. How your blanket hugged you from all sides.
The moon smiled in its sleep.
"Good night, little one," he whispered through his sleep.
And the little cloud stroked his silver cheek and also dozed quietly next to him.
The sky became completely silent. The stars hid until tomorrow. The morning sunlight carefully skirted the cradle so as not to wake the Moon.
And you, too, close your eyes. Listen to how quiet the room is. How evenly your favorite toy breathes next to you. How the cradle of the night rocks you tenderly, tenderly.
Good night.
✨ Quiet singing and someone's care cover us like the warmest blanket ✨