Fah loved painting clouds.
Every morning she sat by her window, looked out at the sky, and picked up her watercolors. Puffy clouds, long streaked clouds, clouds shaped like rabbits, boats, dragons.
Her mother said she had a gift. Her teacher said her cloud paintings looked alive.
One day, Fah painted a big, fluffy white cloud. The moment she set down her brush, the cloud in the painting began to tremble — and then slowly lifted off the paper, rising up into the real sky.
Fah’s eyes went wide. She sat still for a moment. Then she picked up her brush again.
She painted a rabbit-shaped cloud, and it floated up. She painted a boat-shaped cloud, and it floated up. She painted clouds in pale pink, pale purple, and gold — every single one rose into the sky.
The sky became so beautiful that the whole village came outside to look, everyone remarking on how unusually gorgeous the sky was that day.
Fah was thrilled. She kept painting — one cloud, two clouds, ten clouds, twenty clouds.
But then she noticed the sky beginning to darken, little by little. The clouds grew thick and heavy. Sunlight couldn’t get through. A cold wind began to blow.
The children playing outside ran back home. Grandma, who had been hanging out laundry, hurried to bring it back in. The street vendors quickly packed up their stalls.
Then the rain came — hard, pouring rain.
Fah sat alone, watching the storm, her heart growing heavier by the minute. She had made the sky beautiful, but she had also caused trouble for everyone.
When the rain finally stopped, she picked up her brush again — but this time, she painted slowly, thinking carefully about each cloud instead of just painting because she could.
The first cloud, she placed where the sun wouldn’t be too harsh. The second cloud, she placed where the rice fields needed rain. The third cloud, she painted thin and light, to soften the evening light.
The sky grew beautiful once more — but this time, it was a balanced kind of beauty, one that caused no harm to anyone.
That evening, her father came to sit outside with Fah, looking up at the orange-pink sky.
“So beautiful,” he said.
Fah smiled, knowing she had painted today’s sky, but she didn’t say a word.
Because true happiness wasn’t about being praised for what she had done — it was knowing that what she had done was truly good.
From that day on, Fah painted clouds every day, but she never painted more than was needed ever again. She had learned that great ability must always come with great responsibility.
Moral: Special talents are wonderful gifts, but using them with balance and consideration for others is even better. Too much of anything — even something good — can cause problems.
