Once upon a time there was a woman sitting on a balcony, looking at the mountains. Mont Blanc, the white mountain, the highest peak in central Europe, was plainly visible, far up above beyond the lake. The sun was finally shining. Sun cream had been applied, the view was perfect. She was peaceful. The children were somewhere below. Chasing bugs, probably. Catching then, perhaps.As she stitched, the sky grew darker. The air was still, but the clouds moved in, creeping gently up the mountain. As they reached the village, the houses disappeared. Soon only a yellow crane peeped out above the clouds. She could no longer see the lake and the peaks beyond. She needed an extra layer but just wanted to continue sewing. She kept going as the world disappeared.
Soon she was stitching in the middle of the clouds, her fingers and thimble barely visible in the cold damp air. She felt alone in the sky. The faint squeals of her family barely reached her, muffled in the cold air. Deprived of her exquisite alpine view, she had only hexagons to keep the world colourful. She stitched on.