These days, my life is a blur of train rides, assignments, and lab coats. Mornings start with coffee and end with caffeine. My bag is filled with a big fat laptop, dog-eared notes, and a calculator that’s seen better days. Between formulas, deadlines, and the loud screeches of the train, I barely have time to look up.

So when I noticed the paper crane sitting quietly on my desk this morning, I almost didn’t recognise it.

It sat there like it had always been — wings a little bent, colour faded into a gentle pastel from what used to be bright blue. I thought for a second I must’ve made it recently and forgotten, but then I saw the layer of dust beneath it. No. It's the same crane I folded twelve years ago.

When I was little, paper was never just paper. It was a possibility. I’d sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to craft shows on TV, convinced that colour could bend into life if I folded it just right. My desk back then was a full-blown mess. Scissors buried under scraps, glue dots stuck to my sleeves, and laughter echoing somewhere in between.

Every day, I folded something new: a star, a flower, a heart that never broke. But the cranes were my favourite. I believed they could fly if I only found the right breeze. Each one carried a wish tucked between its folds: some for joy, some for friendship, one for courage. I gave many away, believing they’d carry luck with them. Others, I placed on my desk and on my windowsill. I even hung some of them by my window, and when the wind stirred them, it looked like a flock ready to take off.

Then, life unfolded differently. Exams, grades, and growing up arrived. My fingers forgot the patterns they once knew. The paper stacks disappeared into drawers, and the TV channels were replaced with emails, alarms, and a never-ending to-do list. 

Yet, somehow, this one crane stayed. I don’t even remember keeping it out. Maybe it refused to be forgotten. Maybe it wanted to remind me.
Now, when the window is open, a soft gust makes its wings tremble. It almost looks… alive. Not because of magic, but memory. I watch the paper flutter and think of the little girl who once believed she could make the sky out of colour.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what growing up really means — not forgetting, but remembering in smaller, quieter ways. The calm that used to come from folding paper hasn’t vanished; it’s just changed shape.

On impulse, I reach for it. My fingers hesitate before gently unfolding what I once had sealed. The paper crackles softly, a fragile sound of something waking. Inside, in faint pencil strokes, I find a message written by a much smaller hand:

The words stop me. For a moment, the years between us disappear — the child I was, the adult I became. And in that quiet moment, I realise this crane has been waiting all along… guarding my dreams… a wish I’d made for myself… the patience and the care I learned from this craft.

So I smooth the paper flat again, fold the first crease back into place like a muscle memory. Its wings take shape once more. Fragile, imperfect, alive.

And this time, when the wind moves through the room, I smile.