📖 Story
In a small house at the edge of the neighborhood lived a little girl named Basma. She was four years old, with wide honey-colored eyes and a laugh that could be heard in every corner of the house. There was one thing she loved more than all her toys: a soft, fluffy white blanket that looked like a little cloud that had come down from the sky. Her grandmother had given it to her on her birthday and told her, "This is the cloud blanket. Whenever you cover yourself with it, you will feel warm and safe." Since that day, Basma had not slept a single night without the cloud blanket.
That night, Basma ate her dinner, warm lentil soup and a small piece of bread, then washed her hands and brushed her teeth, and put on her blue pajamas covered with yellow stars. She carried the cloud blanket, ran to her bed and jumped in with a little hop. Her father came and sat on the edge of the bed. He read her a short story about a fish who loved colors, kissed her cheek and said, "Good night, my little Basma." Basma yawned and said, "Good night, Baba." Her father switched off the light, left on the little mushroom-shaped lamp with its soft orange glow, and went out, leaving the door a little open.
Basma closed her eyes and pulled the cloud blanket up to her chin. But before she fell asleep, she heard a sound: Whoooo... whoooo... Her eyes flew open. What was that sound? Then she heard another sound: Tap... tap... tap... on the window glass. Then a third sound: Tick, tick, tick, coming from somewhere in the room. Basma sat up in bed, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and said in a tiny voice, "Baba! Baba! Come, please!"
Her father hurried in, switched on the dim light and sat beside her. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked. Basma said, "There are lots of sounds, Baba, strange sounds I don't know, and I can't sleep." Her father smiled a calm smile and said, "Do you know something, Basma? Sounds stop being strange when we know their names. How about we play a game called Who Made That Sound? We listen to the sound together, then we look for whoever made it, and we give it a name." Basma nodded, still holding her blanket tightly.
They were quiet for a moment, and then the first sound came: Whoooo... whoooo... Her father said, "Let's go to the window." He lifted her in his arms along with her blanket, and they stood behind the glass. The branches of the lemon tree in the garden were swaying left and right, and the leaves were dancing. "This is the wind, Basma," he said. "It passes between the branches and over the rooftops, singing its long song: whoooo. It visits every house to tell the trees good night." Basma giggled a little. "The wind sings?" "Yes," said her father, "and its voice sounds like yours when you blow on your soup to cool it."
Then the second sound came: Tap... tap... tap... on the glass. Basma looked carefully and saw a small branch of the lemon tree touching the window every time the wind blew. "And this is the little branch, Basma," said her father. "It is as if it is knocking gently and asking, Is Basma asleep?" This time Basma laughed a bigger laugh and said to the branch through the glass, "No, I'm not asleep yet, you curious little branch!" She waved her small hand at it, and the branch swayed as though it were waving back.
Her father carried her back to bed, and they sat waiting for the third sound. Tick... tick... tick... "That's it!" said Basma. "Where is it coming from, Baba?" "Let's look for it together," he said. They tiptoed around the room. They looked under the bed and found only her pink shoes. They looked behind the curtain and found only her cotton teddy bear. Then Basma lifted her head to the wall and saw the round clock shaped like a yellow duck's face. Its thin hand was moving: tick, tick, tick. "It's the clock, Baba!" she cried. "The duck clock!" "Well done!" said her father. "This clock counts the minutes, walking slowly until morning comes."
Basma went back to bed, covered herself with the cloud blanket and said, "Now I know all the sounds, Baba. The wind sings, the branch knocks on the window, and the duck clock walks." Her father said, "Did you know there is a fourth sound, a very beautiful one?" "What is it?" she asked. "Put your hand on your chest and listen." Basma placed her little hand on her chest and felt something moving gently: thump... thump... thump. "That is your heart, Basma," said her father. "It works all night while you sleep, to look after you." Basma smiled and said, "My heart is my friend too."
Before her father began the song, Basma asked him one last question: "Baba, is the wind afraid of the dark?" Her father laughed and said, "No, sweetheart. The wind loves the night because it is quiet, and it can sing without anyone interrupting. The moon loves the night too, because its light looks beautiful in it. And the stars wait all day long for the night so they can shine." Then he added, "The night, Basma, is not a scary time. It is the time when the whole world rests: the birds in their nests, the cats in their baskets, and the children in their beds." Basma thought for a moment, then said, "So the birds and the cats and I all sleep at the same time?" "Exactly," said her father. "You all sleep together, and you all wake up together in the sunlight."
"And now," said her father, "let's turn these sounds into a song. I say: the wind says, and you say: whoooo. Then I say: the branch says, and you say: tap tap. Then I say: the clock says, and you say: tick tick. Then I say: and the heart says, and you say: thump thump." Her father began to sing in a low voice, and Basma answered him, her voice getting a little smaller each time. The wind says: whoooo. The branch says: tap tap. The clock says: tick tick. And the heart says: thump thump.
The third time, Basma's voice was a tiny whisper like a breeze. The fourth time, she said nothing at all, because her eyelids had grown heavy and her head had sunk onto the soft pillow. The wind was still singing outside, the branch was still tapping on the glass, and the duck clock was still walking, but Basma was not afraid anymore. She was dreaming that she was flying on a big white cloud, just like her blanket, surrounded by yellow stars like the stars on her pajamas.
Her father rose quietly, tucked the cloud blanket around his daughter, switched off the dim light and left the little mushroom lamp glowing. He stood at the door for a moment, looking at her sleeping with a smile, and whispered, "Good night, my brave Basma." In the morning, when Basma woke up, she ran to the window and said to the little branch, "Good morning, branch! I slept so well!" The sun was shining on the lemon leaves, and the wind had become a gentle breeze playing with the curtain.
From that night on, whenever Basma heard a sound in the night, she would ask herself, "Who made this sound?" Then she would look for its name, and the sound would become a friend with nothing scary about it. Basma learned that the things we fear in the dark become small once we know them, and that the best thing to do when we are afraid is to ask someone we love for help, to ask questions and understand, and then to sleep with a calm heart under a warm blanket.
That night, Basma ate her dinner, warm lentil soup and a small piece of bread, then washed her hands and brushed her teeth, and put on her blue pajamas covered with yellow stars. She carried the cloud blanket, ran to her bed and jumped in with a little hop. Her father came and sat on the edge of the bed. He read her a short story about a fish who loved colors, kissed her cheek and said, "Good night, my little Basma." Basma yawned and said, "Good night, Baba." Her father switched off the light, left on the little mushroom-shaped lamp with its soft orange glow, and went out, leaving the door a little open.
Basma closed her eyes and pulled the cloud blanket up to her chin. But before she fell asleep, she heard a sound: Whoooo... whoooo... Her eyes flew open. What was that sound? Then she heard another sound: Tap... tap... tap... on the window glass. Then a third sound: Tick, tick, tick, coming from somewhere in the room. Basma sat up in bed, wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and said in a tiny voice, "Baba! Baba! Come, please!"
Her father hurried in, switched on the dim light and sat beside her. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked. Basma said, "There are lots of sounds, Baba, strange sounds I don't know, and I can't sleep." Her father smiled a calm smile and said, "Do you know something, Basma? Sounds stop being strange when we know their names. How about we play a game called Who Made That Sound? We listen to the sound together, then we look for whoever made it, and we give it a name." Basma nodded, still holding her blanket tightly.
They were quiet for a moment, and then the first sound came: Whoooo... whoooo... Her father said, "Let's go to the window." He lifted her in his arms along with her blanket, and they stood behind the glass. The branches of the lemon tree in the garden were swaying left and right, and the leaves were dancing. "This is the wind, Basma," he said. "It passes between the branches and over the rooftops, singing its long song: whoooo. It visits every house to tell the trees good night." Basma giggled a little. "The wind sings?" "Yes," said her father, "and its voice sounds like yours when you blow on your soup to cool it."
Then the second sound came: Tap... tap... tap... on the glass. Basma looked carefully and saw a small branch of the lemon tree touching the window every time the wind blew. "And this is the little branch, Basma," said her father. "It is as if it is knocking gently and asking, Is Basma asleep?" This time Basma laughed a bigger laugh and said to the branch through the glass, "No, I'm not asleep yet, you curious little branch!" She waved her small hand at it, and the branch swayed as though it were waving back.
Her father carried her back to bed, and they sat waiting for the third sound. Tick... tick... tick... "That's it!" said Basma. "Where is it coming from, Baba?" "Let's look for it together," he said. They tiptoed around the room. They looked under the bed and found only her pink shoes. They looked behind the curtain and found only her cotton teddy bear. Then Basma lifted her head to the wall and saw the round clock shaped like a yellow duck's face. Its thin hand was moving: tick, tick, tick. "It's the clock, Baba!" she cried. "The duck clock!" "Well done!" said her father. "This clock counts the minutes, walking slowly until morning comes."
Basma went back to bed, covered herself with the cloud blanket and said, "Now I know all the sounds, Baba. The wind sings, the branch knocks on the window, and the duck clock walks." Her father said, "Did you know there is a fourth sound, a very beautiful one?" "What is it?" she asked. "Put your hand on your chest and listen." Basma placed her little hand on her chest and felt something moving gently: thump... thump... thump. "That is your heart, Basma," said her father. "It works all night while you sleep, to look after you." Basma smiled and said, "My heart is my friend too."
Before her father began the song, Basma asked him one last question: "Baba, is the wind afraid of the dark?" Her father laughed and said, "No, sweetheart. The wind loves the night because it is quiet, and it can sing without anyone interrupting. The moon loves the night too, because its light looks beautiful in it. And the stars wait all day long for the night so they can shine." Then he added, "The night, Basma, is not a scary time. It is the time when the whole world rests: the birds in their nests, the cats in their baskets, and the children in their beds." Basma thought for a moment, then said, "So the birds and the cats and I all sleep at the same time?" "Exactly," said her father. "You all sleep together, and you all wake up together in the sunlight."
"And now," said her father, "let's turn these sounds into a song. I say: the wind says, and you say: whoooo. Then I say: the branch says, and you say: tap tap. Then I say: the clock says, and you say: tick tick. Then I say: and the heart says, and you say: thump thump." Her father began to sing in a low voice, and Basma answered him, her voice getting a little smaller each time. The wind says: whoooo. The branch says: tap tap. The clock says: tick tick. And the heart says: thump thump.
The third time, Basma's voice was a tiny whisper like a breeze. The fourth time, she said nothing at all, because her eyelids had grown heavy and her head had sunk onto the soft pillow. The wind was still singing outside, the branch was still tapping on the glass, and the duck clock was still walking, but Basma was not afraid anymore. She was dreaming that she was flying on a big white cloud, just like her blanket, surrounded by yellow stars like the stars on her pajamas.
Her father rose quietly, tucked the cloud blanket around his daughter, switched off the dim light and left the little mushroom lamp glowing. He stood at the door for a moment, looking at her sleeping with a smile, and whispered, "Good night, my brave Basma." In the morning, when Basma woke up, she ran to the window and said to the little branch, "Good morning, branch! I slept so well!" The sun was shining on the lemon leaves, and the wind had become a gentle breeze playing with the curtain.
From that night on, whenever Basma heard a sound in the night, she would ask herself, "Who made this sound?" Then she would look for its name, and the sound would become a friend with nothing scary about it. Basma learned that the things we fear in the dark become small once we know them, and that the best thing to do when we are afraid is to ask someone we love for help, to ask questions and understand, and then to sleep with a calm heart under a warm blanket.
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