Nebbia was a little white Maltese, so white that sometimes she disappeared among the sheets or inside a cloud. She lived with a boy named Tommaso, who every night before sleeping whispered secrets into her ear, as if she could carry them somewhere.
One night, Nebbia woke up to a faint sound, like feather steps. She opened her eyes and saw the window wide open. From the windowsill came a trembling blue thread of light. Inside that light was a small moon key, tinkling like a tiny bell.
Tommaso was sleeping peacefully. Nebbia jumped off the bed and moved closer to the key. As soon as she touched it, the floor turned into a mirror of water, and a gentle wind lifted her like a feather.
“Where am I going?” thought Nebbia, while sugar-cotton stars began to glow all around her.
She landed in a garden where, instead of flowers, there were dreams: one dreamed of flying, one of playing music, another of finding a friend.
An owl with glasses watched her from a branch.
“At last, you’re here. You’re the keeper of the key, aren’t you?”
Nebbia didn’t answer, but wagged her tail.
“Every child has a key to their dreams, but they often lose it. It’s your job to remind them.”
Nebbia took the key between her teeth and ran through the garden, opening dreams one after another. Each time she turned the key, a laugh, an idea, a tiny happiness was born. Until she found a gray dream, curled up in a corner. It was Tommaso’s dream.
She opened it with a soft click, and out came a paper boat that could sail even in the dark.
When the sun entered through the window, Tommaso woke up and found Nebbia beside him, with the paper boat between her paws.
“Where did you find this?” the boy laughed.
Nebbia pushed it toward him and lay down, closing her eyes.
From that day on, Tommaso always left the window slightly open.
Because, as we all know, dreams need a little air to come in.