The Cascading Waterfall: The Forgotten Song
The Forgotten Song
Part Four of the Cascading Waterfall Series
by Penamoli
“Some songs are not written. They wait — quiet and unfinished — for us to come home.”
The Cascading Waterfall is a place of memory and myth — where silence speaks, and sometimes, the water gives something back. Each story in this series is a standalone glimpse into a different heart, bound by a single place: the waterfall hidden deep in the rainforest near Beruas, once the cradle of the ancient Gangga Negara.
This fourth story, The Forgotten Song, follows Rina, a woman returning home after many years — carrying grief, a guitar, and a silence she can no longer bear.
It had been twenty-five years since Rina last stepped foot in Beruas.
The air was still the same — damp, warm, humming with unseen life. But the roads had narrowed in her memory, and the trees seemed taller now, closer somehow, as though they’d leaned in over the years to whisper secrets to the earth.
She arrived with a weathered guitar slung across her back and a small urn tucked into the folds of her bag. Inside were the ashes of her mother, who had passed quietly in a city hospital, far from the rainforest that had once been her world.
Rina hadn’t planned to return. For years, she’d avoided the topic when her brother called. “Come back and visit,” Kamil would say. “Even just for a few days.” She always had an excuse — work, deadlines, health. But now, with their mother gone and the silence in her apartment growing heavier each morning, she had run out of reasons to stay away.
Kamil met her at the small station with his usual nod. No hugs, no questions. That was his way — steady as stone, but never cold. He drove her through Beruas without speaking, letting the silence fill the spaces between them like water finding its level.
It was the next morning, just as the mist began to lift from the leaves, that he told her they were going to the waterfall.
“Why?” she asked, still groggy from the long train ride.
“She wanted you to see it again,” he said simply.
They hiked in silence. The trail was just as she remembered — narrow and winding, roots curling across the earth like veins. Somewhere along the way, a bird called out, its voice sharp and sweet. She paused, struck by the strange feeling that the forest remembered her.
When they reached the clearing, Rina stopped short.
The waterfall hadn’t changed.
It still spilled over the rocks in a silver ribbon, the pool below still catching the sky. The air was thick with mist, and the ground was soft with moss and time. She stepped forward slowly, the old guitar bumping gently against her back.
“She used to bring me here,” Rina said, more to herself than to Kamil. “After Dad died. She said the water knew how to hold grief.”
Kamil nodded. He didn’t speak. He just motioned for her to sit on the large flat rock by the edge — the one she’d sat on as a child, legs swinging, dreaming of music and faraway stages.
She unslung the guitar and stared at it for a long time before opening the case. The strings were still good. Her fingers weren’t.
But she played anyway.
The first notes came out hollow and unsure. Then a chord — one she used to love. Another. Her hands found their place slowly, clumsily. And then, without thinking, she began to play something she hadn’t heard in years.
A melody. Faint, half-formed, like breath on a window. It came from somewhere deeper than memory — not a song she had written, but one she had carried. A lullaby her mother had hummed while peeling mangoes. A tune she’d once heard floating through the forest when she’d dozed on her mother’s lap.
She played it through, eyes closed, heart open. The waterfall roared in rhythm, steady and strong, as though it remembered too.
When the last note faded into the trees, she looked up. Kamil had stepped away, giving her space.
In his place, lying neatly on the rock, was a bundle wrapped in cotton — her mother’s scarf, damp from the mist. Beneath it, a folded scrap of notebook paper, faded but intact.
Four words, in her mother’s handwriting:
“Don’t forget your song.”
They walked back as the sky darkened, neither of them speaking. But something had shifted.
Rina didn’t leave the next day.
She stayed in Beruas for a while. Finished the song. Then the next. She played by the waterfall every morning, letting it listen.
Comments