At the school gate, a mother presses her forehead to her child's. 'I'll be right back,' she whispers. The words curl up like a tiny silver thread and stick to Nimbo's belly, humming.
At the train station, a friend waves and shouts, 'See you Monday!' The goodbye zips up and latches onto Nimbo's back like a wet sock. He tilts sideways.
An elderly woman calls up, 'Be safe, darling.' The words pin to Nimbo's front. Now he can barely float flat. He lists, tips, and droops toward the ground.
Nimbo wiggles. Puffs. Turns belly-up. He scrapes the church spire with a soft squeak. The threads tick and hum tighter. He grows dim, pressing down.
One soft morning, Nimbo sinks so low his bottom drags through chimney smoke. He lets go. Every collected goodbye rains down as tiny shimmering drops.
Each drop lands on a villager's shoulder with a warm little pop. A baker laughs. A child stretches her arms wide. 'That's a good one!'
Nimbo floats up, light, trailing a thin silver thread that catches the sunrise. The mother presses a hand to her shoulder and whispers, 'Still here.'
Nimbo hums one small note. The thread sparkles. He drifts on over the rooftops, and the sky is just quiet blue again.
