The Cascading Waterfall: The Paper Boat

 

Part Five of the Cascading Waterfall Series

“Sometimes, we say sorry by remembering. Sometimes, the water listens.”

My name is Arif. I’m nine years old. I like drawing trees, eating mangos, and making paper boats when it rains.

I also had a sister. Her name was Lila. She was only seven.

Lila used to say the waterfall could talk. She said it listened when nobody else did. She said if you sent it a secret, the water would keep it safe.
I didn’t believe her. Not really. Not until now.

Lila and I used to go everywhere together. We climbed trees, made up games, and told stories to the river. We even made a map of the forest, with X marks and dragon caves and secret treasure spots. The waterfall was the biggest one. We called it “The Heart of the Forest.”

But then I grew older. I got busy. I said, “Stop following me, Lila.”
I didn’t mean it. I was just tired that day.
But she stopped following me after that.

She got sick last month. A fever that wouldn’t go away. Her skin burned under my palm, but she still smiled. Said it was nothing. Just a cold.
One morning, I woke up and the house was too quiet.
I thought maybe she was hiding. Maybe it was a game.
But it wasn’t.

My heart trembled as the blue sky dimmed, swallowed by clouds that turned mystically grey.

The adhan echoed louder than usual — its call stretched across the grey sky, as if the heavens themselves were calling out. The familiar words stirred something deep inside me, a mix of sorrow and reverence.

We gathered quietly outside the mosque, the scent of damp earth and wet leaves mingling with the faint aroma of incense from the prayer hall. The murmur of whispered prayers floated around us, blending with the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional shuffle of feet.

Men formed neat rows at the front, with women standing respectfully behind, all facing the same direction—towards Mecca, towards peace.

I stood there, hands trembling so much I had to clasp them tightly together, my heart pounding like the distant rumble of thunder. My throat tightened, and I felt a strange stillness settle inside me, as if the whole world was holding its breath.

The imam’s voice rose gently, calling Allāhu Akbar. We echoed it four times, each repetition a solemn beat in a sacred rhythm.

With each phrase, I prayed silently — “O Allah, forgive her. Have mercy on her. Grant her peace.” I pictured Lila’s smiling face, her laughter by the waterfall, the warmth of her hand in mine.

Tears blurred my vision as the words washed over me, a prayer not just for her body, but for her soul’s journey beyond this life.

Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn.
To Him we belong. To Him we return.

The prayer ended, but the quiet stayed. The clouds hung low, heavy with unshed rain — a silent witness to the farewell we had just said.

The day after her funeral, it rained.
Soft, quiet rain. The kind that doesn't ask questions — just falls.

I didn’t talk to anyone. I sat near the window and folded paper. I made a boat — small, white, and crooked. I took one of her old drawings and folded it inside the boat like a sail.
Then I walked alone to the waterfall.

The path was muddy, and my shoes soaked, but I didn’t care.
I sat on the big rock where we used to sit together and placed the paper boat in the pool.
It floated in circles, then drifted gently toward the falls.
I watched until it disappeared in the mist.
My weeping heart whispered,
“I’m sorry, Lila. I didn’t mean it.”

And I waited.

That night, I had a dream.
Lila was standing in the waterfall. She wasn’t sick.
She wore her favorite yellow baju kurung, the one with birds on it.
Her wavy charcoal hair was tied in a ponytail, just as she always liked.
She was smiling.

She held something in her hands — a paper boat.
She looked at me and said, “Let’s play.”
Then she blew on the boat and sent it across the water.

In the morning, something was waiting for me on the doorstep.

It was wet and crumpled — a paper boat.
But not the one I sent.

This one had a different sail — a cerulean sail.
It was a piece of our old forest map.
The corner with the big X.

I opened the sail. There were four words written in Lila’s handwriting:
“You can still find me.”

I don’t know how it got there.
Maybe someone found it.
Maybe my dream made it real.
Maybe the waterfall listened.

But I believe her now.
So tomorrow, I’m going back.
I have a new boat to send.

Author’s Note
I am not Muslim, but I grew up in Malaysia surrounded by the beauty of Islamic traditions and Malay culture. This story was written from a place of deep respect, personal experience, and careful learning.

I understand that this perspective is not the same as lived Muslim experience. Any cultural or religious inaccuracies are unintentional and entirely my own.

If you’re from the community and feel something could be better represented, I welcome kind feedback — I’m always learning.

The Paper Boat is part of the Cascading Waterfall series — short stories of memory, family, and quiet magic, all flowing from a single mythical place near Beruas. Thank you for reading. If this story touched you, feel free to comment or share.
More mist will rise soon.