In a little meadow behind a row of crooked cottages, there lived a puddle named Mizu.

Mizu was not a very large puddle.

She was roundish on one side, squarish on the other, and had a small muddy toe that stretched toward a clump of buttercups. When it rained, she grew plump and shiny. When the sun came out, she grew thin around the edges and tried not to worry.

Mizu had a lovely home beneath an old willow tree. The willow’s branches hung down like green curtains, and every morning sparrows hopped through the grass nearby, arguing over crumbs.

Still, Mizu was not happy.

“I am far too small,” she grumbled one bright morning.

A ladybird landed on a leaf above her.

“Too small for what?” asked the ladybird.

“For being important,” said Mizu. “Look at me. A hedgehog could step over me. A boot could splash right through me. I want to be a lake.”

“A lake?” said the ladybird.

“Yes. A grand lake. With boats! And reeds! And swans who glide about looking as if they know secrets!”

The ladybird polished one red wing with her tiny foot.

“That does sound very grand,” she said.

“It does,” Mizu replied. “And I will become one.”

From that moment on, Mizu began trying very hard to be a lake.

Whenever it rained, she stretched herself as wide as she could. She slid beneath the willow roots. She crept around a smooth grey stone. She soaked the earth by the buttercups until they wiggled their yellow heads.

“More!” cried Mizu to the rain clouds. “I need much more rain!”

But the rain clouds had places to go. One was hurrying toward the hills. Another had promised to water a farmer’s beans. A small grey cloud was late for a foggy meeting near the sea.

So the rain fell kindly for a while, then stopped.

Mizu puffed herself up as much as she could.

She was bigger than before.

But she was not a lake.

The next day, a snail named Tomás came gliding along the path, carrying his striped shell like a little house.

“Good morning, Mizu,” said Tomás.

“It is not a good morning,” said Mizu. “I am still a puddle.”

Tomás peered into her shining water.

“I think you are an excellent puddle.”

“Puddles are ordinary,” Mizu said sadly. “Lakes are beautiful. Lakes hold floating lilies and silver fish. Lakes have moon paths across them. Lakes are so wide that a person can look at one for ages.”

Tomás considered this.

“I once saw a lake,” he said. “It was very wide indeed.”

“Was it wonderful?”

“It was,” said Tomás. “But it was also so big that I could not see the other side. I got tired just looking at it.”

Mizu made a tiny ripple.

“That is because you are a snail.”

“That is true,” Tomás agreed cheerfully. Then he continued on his way.

Mizu spent the whole afternoon thinking about lakes.

She imagined herself wide and deep, spreading from the willow tree all the way to the distant blue hills. She imagined elegant white swans sailing across her. She imagined a little wooden boat with a red flag bobbing in the middle. She imagined frogs sitting on her banks and singing serious songs in the evening.

But when the wind came, it ruffled her surface.

When a robin came, it took a bath in her.

When a child in yellow boots came running through the meadow, Mizu was splashed into dozens of shining drops.

“Oh!” cried Mizu. “A lake would never be treated this way!”

The child laughed with delight and hurried on toward the cottages.

Mizu gathered herself back together, though she felt rather cross.

That night, the moon rose round and pale above the willow tree.

The meadow turned soft and silver. The buttercups closed their petals. The sparrows tucked their heads under their wings. Even the old willow grew still.

Mizu looked up at the moon.

“Moon,” she called. “You see lakes, don’t you?”

“I do,” said the moon, in a quiet voice.

“Tell me,” said Mizu. “Are they more important than puddles?”

The moon thought for a while.

“Important is a word that often makes trouble,” she said.

“But lakes are bigger.”

“Yes.”

“They hold more water.”

“Yes.”

“They can reflect you almost from one shore to the other.”

“Yes,” said the moon.

Mizu trembled with excitement.

“Then you see? I should become a lake!”

The moon’s pale face seemed to smile.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps you should look closely at what you already hold.”

Then the moon climbed higher, and Mizu did not understand what she meant at all.

The next morning, a great wind arrived.

It came racing over the hills with its sleeves full of leaves. It shook the willow branches. It whistled in the cottage chimneys. It made the meadow grass bend low, then spring up again.

Mizu tried to hold herself very still.

“I must be strong,” she told herself. “Lakes are strong.”

But the wind pushed her this way and that. Tiny bits of grass landed in her. Three willow leaves spun across her surface like little green boats.

Then, just as the wind began to quiet, something happened.

A flock of geese flew over the meadow.

There were twelve of them, all in a neat V shape, calling softly to one another as they passed.

Mizu looked up.

The geese were high above her.

But when she looked down into herself, she saw them there too.

Twelve geese flew across her shining surface.

For one breathless moment, it looked as though the whole flock had swooped down and entered her little puddle.

“Oh!” whispered Mizu.

The geese disappeared beyond the willow tree.

But Mizu stayed very still.

A cloud drifted overhead, fluffy and pink at the edges.

It appeared in Mizu.

Then a patch of bright blue sky appeared in Mizu.

Then the willow branches, all feathery and green.

Mizu looked up. She looked down.

Up, there was the sky.

Down, there was the sky again.

Not a tiny piece of it.

Not merely a corner.

The whole wide sky seemed to live inside her.

That afternoon, Tomás the snail returned.

He was moving slowly, because he had found a particularly delicious mushroom and eaten too much of it.

“Mizu,” he called. “You seem quiet today.”

“I have been thinking,” said Mizu.

“Thinking is good,” said Tomás. “Usually.”

“I wanted to become a lake because I thought only a lake could hold wonderful things.”

Tomás lifted his feelers.

“And?”

“And this morning,” Mizu said, “I held geese. And clouds. And the willow. And all the blue above the meadow.”

Tomás looked into her.

At first he saw his own small face, rather upside down.

Then he saw the sky, clear and endless.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yes,” said Mizu softly. “I am small enough to hold the whole sky close.”

Tomás smiled.

“A lake might hold the sky too,” he said.

“I know,” said Mizu. “But a lake has waves and faraway shores and so many things happening in it. I can be still. I can make the sky seem near enough for a snail to touch.”

Tomás looked very pleased with this idea.

That evening, the child in yellow boots came back to the meadow. This time, the child did not run through Mizu.

They stopped beside her.

The sky was turning lavender, peach, and gold. The first stars were beginning to blink awake.

The child crouched down.

“Oh,” they said.

Mizu held her breath.

The child looked into her, and there were the lavender clouds, the golden sunset, the willow tree, and one bright star.

“It’s like a tiny piece of the whole world,” said the child.

Mizu glowed so brightly that even the ladybird, tucked beneath a leaf, noticed.

From then on, Mizu still enjoyed rainy days. She welcomed every raindrop with a plink and a sparkle. She grew wide when she could, and small when the sunshine asked her to.

But she no longer wished to be a lake.

She let robins bathe in her.

She let thirsty bees drink from her edges.

She let yellow boots splash through her now and then, because splashing made children laugh, and laughter was a lovely thing to hold.

And whenever the sky was clear, Mizu became very still beneath the willow tree.

She reflected the drifting clouds.

She reflected the sleepy moon.

She reflected the stars, one by one, until it seemed that the night had scattered a little extra magic into the grass.

And if anyone happened to look down at just the right moment, they might have seen a small, stubborn puddle holding something bigger than any lake could ever hold close.

The entire sky.