Soma and the Missing Dream Sand

Evening folded itself over the town like a soft blue blanket. One by one, the lamps went yellow, then dim. On the very top of the rooftops walked Soma, the sandman — quiet as a moth, one slow foot at a time. At his hip hung his pouch of dream sand, round and warm… like a small sleeping cat.

He knew every roof by heart. The bumpy red tiles above the bakery. The flat grey slates above the shop with the blue door. Soma stopped at the first window, dipped two fingers into the pouch — and lifted out a little cloud of silver. He blew it, ever so gently, through the gap in the curtains.

Inside, a boy turned over and smiled in his sleep. Somewhere behind his eyes, a small blue boat had just pushed off from a shore. Soma smiled too. That was the best part of the whole night — the smiling. He patted his pouch, hopped to the next roof, and went on with his rounds.

The night smelled of chimney smoke and cold stone. A cat watched him from the gutter and decided he was nothing worth waking for. Soma stepped over a sleeping pigeon, ducked under a washing line, and left a pinch of silver at the window with the geranium… and another at the one with the cracked glass.

But at the fourth window, something felt… wrong. The pouch was lighter. Much lighter. Soma shook it, and only a thin whisper of sand answered from the bottom. He turned around slowly — and there, behind him along the whole row of rooftops, hung a long, glittering ribbon of silver dust.

"Oh no… oh dear," whispered Soma. "A hole. A tiny, tiny hole — right in the corner." He held the pouch up to the moon, and a thread of sand slipped out through it and floated away like smoke. "That's tonight's dreams," he said. "All of them. Leaving without me."

Soma sat down on the cold chimney and pressed the pouch shut with both hands. Below him, dozens of windows were still dark and waiting. Dozens of children, curled up, dreamless. He was only one small sandman, and the sky was very wide. Then — high above — something twinkled twice.