A gentle breeze, redolent of something almost edible—stardust, perhaps, or the scent of fresh rain—brushed across Arlo's skin. Tilly nestled comfortably against him, and Arlo stepped along the glowing path without a second thought. He understood, in that instant, that this was the culmination of all he'd hoped for.

The instant he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. He stood on a soft, cloud-like road, its surface sparkling under him like crushed diamonds, a far cry from the usual grass, wind, and sunlight. The air had a bite to it, refreshing and pure, and the sky seemed near, as if you might reach out and brush against it.

The cloud painter, their shimmering brush dangling nonchalantly, floated gracefully above the path. Their voices were a gentle breeze, and a warm smile spread over their face.

"Hello, Arlo. I had been waiting."

Arlo was torn. Should he speak, or just watch the painter? The man seemed to drift, as weightless as a dandelion seed caught in a gentle wind. Arlo was mesmerized. To confirm he wasn't lost in a dream, Tilly gave his face a little poke and let out a little chirp. The brush, a comet's tail of shimmering paint, lifted from the cloud painter's grasp.

"There is no need to be afraid," the painter said, his voice a soft rumble, like distant thunder. Your presence here suggests you see the sky differently from others. The sky, a patient storyteller, rewards those who really hear its stories.

Arlo felt a flush of warmth, a mix of pride and shyness, and he swallowed hard. "Are you the one who paints all the clouds?" he said.

The painter chuckled, a sound reminiscent of raindrops pattering on glass. "Not all of them," they said. "No single artist can hope to capture the sky's immense expanse. However, I will describe the wonders, hopes, and aspirations that exist in Willowmist."