Cirrus was a wanderer. He was a cloud, after all, and clouds were born to drift on the high winds, to see the world from a silent, floating distance. He had danced over emerald forests and raced across the backs of blue mountains. But he had never felt anything, not truly. He was a spectator, a beautiful, passing thought in the sky.One day, a stubborn wind current pushed him down into a high valley cupped between sleepy peaks. Below was a small village named Stillwater, suffering under a relentless, baking sun. The earth was cracked, the riverbed was dry, and