High above the meadows, where the sky was wide and blue and full of soft white shapes, there lived a small cloud named Nola.
Nola loved her job. Every morning she would drift over the gardens and the fields and let her rain fall down in a gentle pitter-patter — on the flowers, on the grass, on the vegetable patches and the duck ponds and the muddy patches where the rabbits liked to dig.
But one morning, Nola drifted over the meadow and looked down at the thirsty daisies below her — and no rain came out.
She tried again. Nothing.
She shook herself gently, the way you might shake a bottle to see if anything is left. Not a single drop.
Nola felt a heavy feeling settle over her, the way a grey morning sometimes feels heavy, and she drifted away from the meadow feeling very small.
"What's the matter?" said the Sun, peering around from behind a bigger cloud.
"I've run out of rain," said Nola sadly. "I don't know what to do."
The Sun thought about this. "Have you looked around you?" he said.
Nola looked. All around her, drifting through the bright blue sky, were dozens of other clouds. Big fluffy ones and thin wispy ones and round bouncing ones and quiet steady ones, all of them moving slowly together.
A large cloud named Billow drifted alongside her. "Is everything alright?" he asked.
"I've run out of rain," said Nola.
Billow smiled — a big slow cloud smile. "Oh, that happens to all of us sometimes," he said. "Come along with us. We're all heading toward the mountains, where the air is cool and wet and full of rain to be collected. Come and fill up."
Nola floated over to him, and together they drifted toward the cool mountain air.
By afternoon, Nola was full again — plump and silver-grey and ready.
She drifted back over the meadow and let her rain fall down, soft and steady, on all the waiting flowers.
The daisies tilted their faces up and drank.
And Nola understood that running empty was not something to be ashamed of. Sometimes you just needed to let others help you fill back up.
Hearth Yarns
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