I still remember that rainy afternoon as vividly as if it happened yesterday. I must have been around six or seven, a little girl with big dreams and an even bigger imagination. The monsoon had arrived, turning the dusty streets into rivers of possibilities.
Sitting by the window, I traced my fingers along the cold glass, watching raindrops chase each other down like little explorers on a grand journey. The rhythmic pitter-patter against the roof was my favorite kind of music. To most, rain was just an inconvenience—wet socks, canceled plans—but to me, it was an invitation to play.
That day, I decided to set sail—well, not literally, but in the way only a child can dream. I tore a page from an old newspaper and folded it carefully, my tiny hands pressing each crease with the seriousness of a seasoned shipbuilder. I had seen my father do it once, and now it was my turn to craft something beautiful.
With excitement bubbling inside me, I rushed outside, my feet splashing through puddles as I searched for the perfect stream. Finally, I found a narrow channel where the rainwater flowed freely, carrying leaves and twigs like tiny boats already on their way. I bent down, placed my boat on the water, and let go.
It floated.
For a moment, I was mesmerized. In my little world, this wasn’t just a scrap of paper—this was a voyager, setting off on a grand adventure. Maybe it would travel through the city, past unseen lands, and eventually reach the great ocean.
But then, it happened.
A neighborhood boy, older than me, walked past and stomped on my boat. Just like that, it crumpled under his foot, swallowed by the swirling water.
I stood there, staring at the spot where it had been just moments ago. My hands clenched into fists, not out of anger but out of confusion. My innocent mind couldn’t comprehend it. Why? I wanted to ask. Why would someone do that?
The boy didn’t even look at me. He just smirked and walked away, as if crushing dreams was an everyday sport for him.
I should have cried. Maybe a part of me wanted to. But before the tears could form, a woman, someone I didn’t even know, stepped forward. She had been watching from her porch, and without a word, she pulled a dry piece of paper from her bag.
“Let’s make another,” she said, kneeling beside me.
Her voice was warm, steady, reassuring. She showed me how to fold it again, her hands moving with the patience of someone who understood that little moments like this mattered.
Together, we crafted a new boat, one that felt even stronger than the first. When we placed it in the water, I watched it sail away with newfound determination.
That day, I learned something profound—kindness rebuilds what cruelty tries to break. And no matter how many times someone crushes our little paper boats, we can always make another.