The cloud that Followed Me Home

It all started on an unusually warm autumn afternoon. The sky was painted in soft pinks and oranges, the kind that made you stop and stare, wondering if the heavens themselves were showing off. I had just finished school, my backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, and my thoughts were drifting somewhere between what Mom might cook for dinner and the math homework I was determined to ignore.

That’s when I noticed it—a small, fluffy cloud drifting low in the sky, almost at the height of the tallest trees. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it at first. It was shaped like a sheep, puffy and soft-looking, and seemed to float slower than the others. But when I turned the corner onto Maple Lane, I realized something odd: the cloud had changed direction… and it was following me.

I stopped walking. So did the cloud.

I took three careful steps forward.

It moved with me.

I frowned, glancing around to see if anyone else noticed. The street was empty. A squirrel darted across the sidewalk, and a few leaves danced in the wind. But the cloud remained, bobbing silently above me like a balloon without a string.

"Okay, that's weird," I muttered, turning down another street.

The cloud trailed above like a faithful dog. It didn’t cast a shadow, and it made no sound. It just hovered and followed, and somehow… it didn’t feel scary. It felt curious, like it had questions but didn’t know how to ask.

By the time I reached home, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and the cloud was still there. It settled above our backyard as I dropped my bag on the porch.

I looked up. “You coming in, or…?”

The cloud bobbed gently.

I laughed. “Alright then. But no floating over the dinner table, got it?”

That night, I peeked through my window and saw the cloud resting just above our roof, pulsing faintly like it was breathing. I didn’t tell my parents—how could I explain that a cloud had decided to adopt me?

Days passed. The cloud became part of my daily life. It followed me to school (hovering high enough not to be noticed), waited patiently during classes, and rejoined me as I walked home. It shielded me from sudden rain showers, puffed up like a blanket during cold mornings, and once, it even glowed faintly when I was scared walking home in the dark.

I named it Nimbus.

Sometimes, when I was alone, I’d talk to it. I’d tell it about my day, about the mean kids at school, about my dreams of being a writer. Nimbus never answered, but it seemed to listen. Whenever I was sad, it drifted closer. When I was happy, it danced in slow, looping spirals above me.

One Saturday morning, I woke up to find it gone.

Panic rushed through me. I ran outside, scanned the skies—nothing. The sun was too bright. The sky, too empty.

“Nimbus?” I called out.

Nothing.

I felt the weight of absence like a stone in my chest. Days passed. Then weeks. No sign of the cloud. The skies were normal again, indifferent and distant. I stopped talking on my walks home. Stopped looking up.

I didn’t realize how much it had meant to me until it was gone.

Then, one evening—months later—I was walking through the park, the same one I’d visited a hundred times. I sat on a swing and stared at the sky, just thinking. That’s when I saw it.

Not Nimbus. Not exactly.

But a cloud. Small. Familiar. It drifted toward me from the west, weaving slowly through the others like it knew where it was going.

It stopped right above me.

I didn’t move. Just watched, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and hope.

“Is it you?” I whispered.

A soft mist descended around me, warm and gentle like a hug. I closed my eyes and smiled.

Maybe it was the same cloud. Maybe it wasn’t. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Sometimes, I think clouds find people. Not the other way around. They drift through the world looking for hearts that need shelter. Maybe I needed Nimbus more than I knew. And maybe, when I was ready, it needed to move on—like all beautiful, fleeting things.

But I’ll never forget the days I was followed home by a cloud.

And even now, every time I look up at the sky, I wonder if Nimbus is watching.

Somewhere.

Moral:

Sometimes, the most unexpected companions can bring comfort, magic, and meaning to our lives—if we’re open to seeing them.