High above the Sahyadri hills, a small cloud named Megh was holding its rain.

He had been holding it all day.

The other clouds had already let go — their rain falling in soft curtains over the rice fields below. But Megh kept his pulled close, grey and tight.

“What are you waiting for?” called the Wind.

“What if they don’t need me tomorrow?” Megh whispered. “What if I let go and have nothing left?”

The old Rain Wind was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “Look down, little Megh.”

Below, a small girl stood in her doorway, face turned up to the sky. Waiting. Her mother’s hand was resting on her shoulder.

“She is not waiting for tomorrow’s rain,” said the Wind. “She is waiting for yours. Right now.”

Megh felt something loosen in his chest.

He let go.

The rain fell warm and steady over the hills. The girl laughed and ran into it, arms wide open.

And Megh — lighter than he had ever been — drifted up into the stars, already filling again.

“Let go,” whispered the Wind. “You always fill again.” And the night was soft and clean and new.