That's an odd thought—maybe the clouds are just clouds. If I could hear them, I'd probably sit on a quiet hill, close my eyes, and see if the whispers are just wind or something else. I'd also check if my mind is making patterns out of random sounds. Still, the idea of a dragon talking to me feels like the perfect plot for a story.

On a cool afternoon I walked up the small hill that everyone in town said was just a dull slope. The sky above was a gray blanket, but as I reached the top a strange thing happened. The clouds began to puff and shape themselves into a giant dragon, but not the fierce kind you see in stories—more like a fluffy, sleeping beast with scales that looked like soft cotton. I sat down on the grass and listened. A gentle wind brushed past, and in that wind I heard a faint voice. It was the dragon’s fur, or fluff, speaking to me in a language of sighs and rustles. The words were vague, like a secret whispered by a friend, but they carried meaning—memories of long days and forgotten stories that had been carried by the wind for ages. I pulled out my notebook, my favorite one, the one I keep for notes on odd things. I started writing down the words as best as I could. The handwriting was steady, my pen moving across the page like a quiet heartbeat. The more I wrote, the clearer the message became: it wasn’t just random noise; the dragon was telling me about the old hills, about the children who once climbed there, and about the dreams that the wind carries when it passes over the clouds. When the sun began to dip behind the ridge, the dragon’s outline faded back into ordinary clouds, and the wind turned into a normal breeze. But the memory of that whisper stayed with me. I left the hill with my notebook, feeling a little more connected to something larger than myself. The next day I came back, notebook in hand, hoping to catch another fragment of the dragon’s lullaby. If the clouds ever decide to speak again, I’ll be ready, pen poised and heart open.