It had been twenty-three days since Pigúiça last saw her grandma. She knew the exact number because she drew a little line on the wall every morning. There were so many lines now that they looked like a fence.
Grandma was a husky with a snowy white muzzle who lived on the other side of the mountains, in a valley far, far away. She baked the best honey cookies on Dogavios and knew a song for every kind of cloud.
That afternoon, Pigúiça took out her passport, the little book with stamps from her last trip, and turned the pages. There was the bridge stamp, the river stamp, and the stamp from Grandma's house, shaped like a cookie.
“I miss her,” she told Fofuxo in a tiny voice. “And missing someone hurts right here inside, like when you eat ice cream too fast.”
Fofuxo thought for a moment. His eyes, which had been golden, turned deep blue, the way they do when he has something important to say. “Come with me,” he said. “Bring your passport.”
The two of them climbed to the top of the highest hill. From up there they could see the valleys, the rivers, and the mountains, one behind the other. And way, way in the distance, a thin curl of smoke rose from a chimney.
“Could that be Grandma's house?” asked Pigúiça. “It could be,” said Fofuxo. “And look at the sky. It's the very same sky that's over her house right now. She might be looking at it too.”
Pigúiça sat down and looked. The sky swirled pink, and a smiling cloud drifted slowly by, heading toward the mountains.
“Cloud!” Pigúiça called. “Do you go past my grandma's house?” The cloud smiled even wider and nodded, wiggling its fluffy edges.
So Pigúiça stood up tall, puffed out her chest, and said, loud and clear, “Grandma, I miss you! Save a honey cookie for me!” And the cloud carried the message away, slowly, up over the mountains.
Fofuxo opened the passport to an empty page. “This page is waiting for the next stamp,” he said. “When you miss someone, it saves a spot for the next time you're together.”
Back home, Pigúiça didn't draw a line on the wall. She drew a picture instead: her and Grandma eating honey cookies, with a smiling cloud on top. And she glued it into her passport, on the empty page.
When she lay down, she looked out the window. Far away, behind the mountains, Grandma might be lying down too, looking at the same sky, with a honey cookie tucked away.
“Good night, Grandma,” Pigúiça whispered. And she closed her eyes. Sometimes, when we fall asleep thinking of someone we love, missing them gets very small and turns into a sweet dream. May yours be just like that.
