The paper swan - by Rahima Suleiman

"The Paper Swan" In a quiet coastal village where the sea whispered secrets to the shore, there lived a girl named Amara. She was known for her silence—not the kind born of shyness, but the kind carved by grief. At age ten, she had lost both parents to a storm at sea. Since then, she had spoken only a handful of words, her voice buried deep beneath sorrow. But Amara had a gift. Each morning, she folded paper swans from any scrap she could find—old letters, discarded newspapers, even the backs of menus from the local café. Her swans were delicate, their wings sharp with detail, and every one held a secret message written inside in tiny, precise script. No one knew what they said. She would leave the swans everywhere: on benches, window sills, and boats docked by the shore. Some people ignored them, but others kept them, sensing something sacred inside. There was a rumor that if you opened the swan at the right moment—during a heartbreak, a great decision, or a final goodbye—you would find the exact words you needed. One day, a boy named Elias arrived in the village. He carried a heavy heart and a tattered notebook. He had been traveling aimlessly ever since his sister died, looking for something he couldn't name. He noticed the swans almost immediately. Curious, he began collecting them—carefully, reverently—though he never dared open one. He finally met Amara one misty morning, sitting alone on the pier, folding another swan. She looked at him, and to his surprise, smiled. “Why don’t you open one?” she asked softly—the first words she had spoken aloud in years. Elias hesitated. “I’m afraid it will disappear once I do.” Amara’s eyes were gentle. “Sometimes, things have to disappear to make space for healing.” He chose one swan. Slowly, he unfolded it. Inside, written in the smallest handwriting he had ever seen, were seven words: “You are still allowed to begin again.” Tears welled in his eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of hope. He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, he breathed deeply—fully. From that day on, Amara began to speak more. And Elias stayed. Together, they created a floating garden of swans that traveled the sea, carrying messages of healing to those who needed them most. Years later, people would still speak of the girl who folded grief into wings and the boy who found his voice in silence. The legend of the paper swans lived on—not because of magic, but because of the quiet truth they carried: That even the most broken hearts can become something beautiful

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