He wasn't supposed to be here. The greenhouse was condemned. But Mr. Elara had a key, and the Bong Cloud had a secret: it could show you things. Not the future, not the past, but the potential . The quiet what-ifs.
The Bong Cloud stretched toward her, curious. It had never seen her before. It swirled, colors churning—deep indigo, a flash of chartreuse. the bong cloud
Mr. Elara watched her go. Then he turned to the Bong Cloud, which had started making a tiny, silent rainbow that arced over a patch of weeds. He wasn't supposed to be here
Today, it was creating a tiny thunderstorm. A miniature rain shower pattered on the cracked terracotta pots, growing a forest of moss. Elara had a key, and the Bong Cloud
She didn't say thank you. She just ran out, back toward the art wing, where she knew a pottery wheel sat unused in the corner of Ms. Gable's room.
"Good job," he said.