Livora Gracely

The fish were visible. The mystery was not.

The old mouse noticed the glass dome on a Tuesday.

By Wednesday he was still looking at it.

By Thursday he had developed questions.

This was normal.

The mouse collected questions the way other people collected stamps.

Inside the dome stood a small house balanced on an improbable collection of wooden platforms.

Clouds drifted through the structure.

Birds wandered between them.

Far below, a clear blue sea contained dozens of fish.

And every morning, exactly at sunrise, an old fisherman stepped out of the house carrying a fishing rod.

The fisherman climbed down three ladders.

Crossed two platforms.

Walked through a cloud.

Then sat quietly above the water.

And fished.

The mouse approved of this.

Fishing seemed sensible.

The strange part came later.

Every afternoon the fisherman returned home carrying nothing.

No fish.

No bucket.

No evidence of success whatsoever.

The next morning he did it again.

And again.

And again.

After several weeks the mouse became suspicious.

The fish were everywhere.

They practically introduced themselves.

Some of them swam directly beneath the hook.

One unusually confident fish appeared to follow the fisherman around.

The mouse named him Harold.

Harold never seemed concerned.

Eventually curiosity became stronger than politeness.

The mouse tapped on the glass.

The fisherman looked down.

The mouse waved his cane.

The fisherman waved back.

Several complicated gestures later, they managed a conversation.

The mouse pointed toward the water.

Then toward the fishing rod.

Then toward the perfectly fish-filled sea.

Finally he shouted:

“Why do you keep fishing if you never catch anything?”

The fisherman blinked.

Then laughed.

A long, warm laugh.

The kind people save for questions they have answered many times before.

“Oh,” he said.

“I’m not trying to catch fish.”

The mouse stared.

The fish stared.

Even Harold seemed interested.

The fisherman pointed upward.

Toward the clouds drifting lazily around the platforms.

“I catch those.”

The mouse looked confused.

The fisherman reeled in his line.

Attached to the hook was a small piece of cloud.

Soft.

White.

Barely larger than a pillow.

The fisherman carefully folded it into a basket.

Then carried it home.

The mouse watched in silence.

The fisherman smiled.

“My house sits very high.”

He nodded toward the roof.

“Clouds make excellent insulation.”

The mouse looked at the basket.

Then at the house.

Then at the clouds.

Then back at the fish.

The fish appeared deeply relieved.

Especially Harold.

For the first time in weeks, everything finally made sense.

At least to everyone except Harold.

Harold still believed he had won something.

☁️🎣🐟🐭♥️