Your choice changes what happens next
A pocket of moonlight
Luma was a small cloud with one corner that always folded inward. The moon called it a pocket. On this evening, when the sky over the village was the colour of a washed blue cup, a little moonlight settled there. Luma looked into the fold. It held a soft silver glow, no larger than the light beneath a partly open door. "You may carry it for a while," said the moon, "or let it go whenever you like."
Below, the village was putting away its day. Someone folded a market awning. Someone placed a pair of shoes beside a doorstep. The river curved past the houses and into the meadow, carrying the last pale colours of the evening. Luma had no parcels to deliver and no time to arrive. A tune rose from a chimney, while a ribbon of reflected sky shone along the water. Either would make a pleasant beginning. The little cloud let the air hold its weight.