The cloud tailor lived in the tallest tower in the sky. Every morning, the weather office sent measurements: a thick quilt for the mountains, a long sheet for the sea, three grey coats for the city.
He wasn't allowed to throw the scraps away. Rain without an address was strictly forbidden. So little white offcuts crowded his windowsill.
One afternoon, a scrap stuck to his finger and gave a tiny whistle. He stretched it, and ears appeared. He folded it, and out came a trunk. For the first time, he stitched a cloud without consulting any measurements.
A small elephant stepped through the window and drifted down.
Alarmed, the tailor hurried down the stairs until he reached a dry little town. His elephant was standing above the school roof. Below it, children were drawing its picture in their notebooks. The caretaker rushed out with a bucket, but not a drop fell.
“It needs a drink,” a girl said.
She filled a mug at the tap. The cloud lowered its trunk, drank the water, and flicked a little spray onto her nose.
The next morning, the tailor received his first letter. It carried no stamp from the weather office. In crooked handwriting, it said:
“The elephant needs a friend. A rabbit would do. We have room.”
The tailor put the letter on his windowsill and opened the drawer of white offcuts. He set aside the two longest pieces for ears.
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