The Snowflake Factory

High above the world, the cloud atelier buzzed with tiny, invisible artisans. Each one was no bigger than a wisp of mist, yet they carried tools of crystal and frost, and their eyes sparkled like frozen dew.
“Alright, team,” chirped one, twirling a delicate ice pick, “let’s make today’s batch truly spectacular!”

Some artisans spun spiral molds, twisting water molecules into dizzying patterns. Others carved hexagonal lattices, so intricate that even the clouds paused to admire them. A few mischievous ones experimented with tiny star shapes—flakes that glittered like morning sun on frozen lakes.
Between crafting, they whispered gossip:
“Did you see Flurry’s design yesterday? The one that danced like a ballerina?”
“Oh, don’t even start—my snowflake twirled three times in the air before landing!”

Once a flake was perfect, it was released with a gentle flick. Gravity, silent and tireless, caught it like a delicate net and guided it on its spiraling descent to Earth.

Some flakes drifted slowly, teasing the wind, while others danced straight to windows, landing on noses, eyelashes, and mittened hands. The artisans watched from above, smiling invisibly at the wonder below. Their work was unseen, unpaid, yet endlessly satisfying—because each flake carried a touch of joy, a whisper of winter’s magic, freely given to anyone who paused to look.

As evening fell, the cloud factory hummed quietly, preparing for another batch. Tomorrow, more patterns, more tiny marvels, more snowflake surprises for the world below. And somewhere, a child laughed, catching a flake on their tongue, never knowing the invisible hands that had shaped it.