Tiny Wings Rooftop Garden

Hot air shimmered above the tin rooftops of Kampung Baru as Nura took the stairs two at a time. The metal railing burned her palm, but she did not slow. Above, she already heard the soft flap of wings and the faint squeak of the rooftop gate.

She burst onto the roof and pushed the gate wide. Green netting rustled. Rows of potted lime trees, hibiscus, and bougainvillea lined the low walls. Butterflies drifted like confetti between the flowers.

Near the centre stood Dada Ismail, bent over his pride and joy. The glass enclosure curved like half a crystal dome, catching the late-afternoon sun. Inside, orchids clung to a twisted branch. A pair of Raja Brooke’s birdwing butterflies glided past each other, black wings edged with bright green.

“Peace be upon you, Dada!” Nura called, dropping her school bag beside a stack of plastic pots.

“And peace be upon you, my little scientist,” Dada said. His back cracked softly as he straightened. His white cap sat slightly crooked, and his thin grey beard moved when he smiled. In one hand he held a folded cloth. He finished wiping a smudge from the glass and blew on it.

He wagged a finger. “Remember. No touching the Crystal House with wet hands. The glass scratches easily.”

“I know,” Nura said. She wiped her hands on her skirt just in case, then fished her cracked phone from her pocket. “Dada, look. Teacher Faridah finally replied.”

The screen glowed with a class chat full of stickers and messages. Near the bottom, one line made Nura’s heart thump.

Teacher Faridah: Confirmed. Mrs. Salmah approved visit to Tiny Wings Rooftop Garden tomorrow. Payment RM500 on arrival.

“They’re really coming. SK Kampung Baru. Tomorrow.” She held the phone up.

Dada leaned close, squinting. His eyebrows lifted. “Five hundred ringgit?”

He patted his shirt pocket where a tiny, dog-eared notebook sat, pulled it out, and flipped through pages filled with names, dates, and amounts.

“Tomorrow, God willing, we write ‘SK Kampung Baru – paid’ right here.” He tapped an empty line. “Your Mama will be happy to see this.”

As if called, Mama Aisha appeared on the stairs, one hand on the wall, the other holding a blister pack of tablets. The silver foil caught the sunlight. Only two white pills were left.

“Dad,” Mama said, not quite stepping onto the rooftop. Her scarf fluttered; she pressed one corner under her chin. “The clinic called. They said by Friday. We must pay before they give the next box.”

Dada’s face softened. He slid the notebook back into his pocket and tapped it. “Tomorrow, God willing. Tiny Wings will pay.”

His fingers lingered on the tablets before he handed them back. Mama tucked the blister pack into her dress pocket and exhaled.

“Don’t let the children break anything,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious. Her eyes rested on the shining glass dome. “Especially that one.”

A small blur shot past Nura’s legs. Yusuf, her six-year-old brother, chased a yellow butterfly between two tall jasmine pots. His faded superhero T-shirt flapped as he ran.

“Yusuf, slow down!” Nura called.

He bumped a clay pot near the edge of a shelf. The pot rocked, scraping. Soil crumbled from its rim.

Nura lunged and grabbed it with both hands. The rough clay bit her fingers. For a second it hung heavy, then settled.

“Hey!” She set it down firmly and glared at Yusuf. He stared up, eyes wide. “You almost killed Dada’s chili plant.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking a fallen leaf.

Dada chuckled, but moved the chili pot farther from the edge. “Chili can buy rice, you know. No more running between the pots, Yusuf. Butterflies, not football.”

Footsteps clanged on the stairs. Amir, their neighbour from the unit below, appeared with a bundle of paper bunting over one shoulder and a roll of tape on his wrist.

“Peace be upon you!” he puffed. “My mother said I can help decorate. But only if I don’t step on any insects.”

“And peace be upon you,” Dada said. His smile returned. “Good. We must make this place look like a real science centre.”

They got to work. Amir taped colourful arrows along the stair wall, pointing up with little speech bubbles that said “This way to Tiny Wings!” in his messy handwriting. Nura crouched on the floor as she wrote “Welcome, SK Kampung Baru!” on cardboard with a thick marker. The cardboard soaked up the ink, and her letters grew bold.

Dada practised his explanations to an invisible class, pacing between the pots. “Children, this is called metamorphosis,” he said, waving toward the Crystal House. “From egg to caterpillar, to chrysalis, to butterfly. Allah changes them stage by stage. You see this chrysalis? It looks dead, but inside—” He cupped his hands and opened them slowly.

The sky deepened from pale blue to orange. The Petronas Towers in the distance caught the glow. From a nearby masjid, the call to the sunset prayer floated through the air.

Nura walked to the Crystal House and pressed her fingertips lightly to the cool glass. Inside, one Raja Brooke’s birdwing glided past, wings steady.

“Tomorrow will be your best day, Dada,” she whispered. “God willing.”

The next afternoon, the rooftop felt heavier. Humid air sat thick on Nura’s shoulders. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dust.

“Faster, Nura,” Amir called from the stairwell. “Teacher said they might come early.”

“I know,” she answered.

They had tied the bunting between two poles, so it fluttered weakly. A row of plastic chairs stood in a crooked line. Nura straightened one, then another, but each time she turned away they seemed to lean again.

From below, Mama’s voice floated up. “Nura! Don’t forget the wet clothes on the line! Rain is coming!”

“Later, Ma!” Nura shouted back. Her eyes darted to the corner where an old standing fan leaned against the wall, its metal cage bent, one leg crooked.

“If the kids come and it’s this hot, they’ll faint,” Amir said, fanning himself with a paper plate.

“Okay, help me,” Nura said.

Together, they dragged the fan from the stairwell. It squealed as its rusted wheels scraped the floor. Nura plugged it into a long orange extension cord that snaked across the rooftop toward a loose socket near the Crystal House.

“Nura, careful with the wires!” Mama’s voice came again, sharper.

“Okay!” Nura called, but her hand was already on the switch.

The fan coughed when it started, blades shuddering, then spun into a loud, uneven whirr. A weak breeze washed over her face.

“Race you to the mango tree and back,” Amir said suddenly, eyes bright.

“We don’t have time,” Nura began, but he was already jogging between the planters.

She hesitated, then grinned and took off after him. Her shoes slapped the concrete. Leaves brushed her arms.

Her heel caught on something.

The orange cord jerked tight around her ankle. She stumbled, arms flailing. Behind her, the fan lurched. Its crooked leg lifted.

“Wait—” Amir shouted.

Nura twisted around just in time to see the fan tilt, its heavy head swinging forward. The metal cage met the smooth glass of the Crystal House with a sharp, ringing crack.

Silence lasted a heartbeat.

Then the glass sighed. A spiderweb of white fractures shot across one side of the dome. A jagged piece broke free and fell inward, shattering into smaller shards as it hit the orchid branch.

Inside, the butterflies exploded into motion. One Raja Brooke’s birdwing slammed into the broken edge and caught its wing. It hung, crooked, half-spread, struggling.

“No, no, no,” Nura whispered.

She lunged, reaching inside. A shard sliced across her palm. A thin line of blood appeared. She jerked her hand back, glass tinkling onto the floor.

Her heart hammered. The fan, knocked sideways, whirred once more and then clunked to a stop.

From the stairwell, Dada’s voice floated up. “What was that sound?”

Nura’s eyes flew to the broken opening. Splinters glittered. The injured butterfly still clung to the cracked edge, its damaged wing trembling.

She grabbed the first thing she saw—a folded batik cloth on a plastic chair. Her fingers shook as she flung it over the broken side of the Crystal House. The fabric fell unevenly.

“Just a pot, Dada!” she called, forcing her voice to sound casual. “It fell, but it’s okay!”

Amir stared at the cloth, then at the glass pieces. His teeth sank into his lower lip.

“Are you sure—” he began.

“Shh,” Nura hissed. She nudged the fallen fan farther away with her foot.

From below, Dada answered, “I will pray the afternoon prayer first. Then I come up to check the Crystal House.”

His footsteps faded.

Nura pressed her bleeding palm against her skirt, leaving a dark patch. She kept her other hand flat on the batik cloth, as if her fingers alone could hold the Crystal House together.

By the time Dada climbed the stairs after the afternoon prayer, the sun had dipped behind clouds. The light turned soft and grey.

He stepped out, slippers slapping the concrete. His gaze went to the chairs, the bunting, then the Crystal House.

“Ahh,” he said, seeing the batik cloth. “You made shade for them. Good idea. This afternoon is too hot.”

Nura’s throat tightened. She forced a small smile and curled her fingers to hide the cut.

Dada shuffled closer and lifted one corner of the cloth to peek inside. The injured Raja Brooke’s birdwing rested on a branch now, its wing bent.

“Eh, my poor king,” Dada murmured.

He opened the Crystal House door from the unbroken side, hands steady. He cupped the butterfly in his palms and transferred it into a smaller cage on a nearby table.

“We won’t show this pair tomorrow,” he said. “Let them rest. The Crystal House becomes even more important now. It is the main star for the students.”

He smiled at Nura. “You will help me, yes? My assistant.”

Her stomach twisted. She nodded.

“I’m going to the masjid for a short class before the sunset prayer,” Dada said, adjusting his cap. “Guard the garden. No storms, please.”

He chuckled and patted the batik cloth once before turning toward the stairs.

When his footsteps faded, the rooftop fell quiet.

Nura lifted the cloth carefully. The crack was worse than she remembered. A long white line curved across the glass, ending in a jagged gap where the missing piece had fallen. At the bottom edge, the metal frame bent slightly outward.

“Maybe we can tape it,” she said.

Amir crouched beside her. “Tape glass?”

“We don’t have a choice,” she snapped, then winced. “Sorry. Just… help me.”

They pulled a roll of brown tape from Dada’s toolbox. Nura tried to press the broken piece back, but the edges no longer matched. Tiny splinters scratched her fingertips. She taped across the crack in long, messy strips. The tape wrinkled and stuck to itself. A strip of cardboard went over the largest gap.

When they stepped back, the panel sagged. A thin dark line of open air remained along one side.

A breeze slipped through it. Several butterflies inside fluttered to the far wall, their wings tapping the glass.

Dark clouds rolled over the city. The air cooled with that strange, electric feeling before a storm.

Nura’s phone buzzed. She wiped her fingers on her skirt and swiped the screen.

Teacher Faridah: School bus coming 30 mins earlier tomorrow. Rain expected. Please be ready. Mrs. Salmah wants everything smooth.

The words blurred. Nura blinked.

“We’ll fix it,” she said to Amir, more to herself. “We just need new glass. Before they come.”

“How?” he asked.

She snatched the measuring tape from the toolbox. The metal strip shot out with a snap.

“Hold this end,” she said.

Together they tried to measure the curved opening. The tape slipped. The numbers danced. Nura squinted, reading them under her breath and writing them on the back of the “Welcome” sign with a nearly-dry pen.

“It’s not exact,” Amir muttered.

“It has to be enough,” she said.

Thunder rumbled. She shoved the cardboard with the shaky numbers into Amir’s hand.

“Keep this safe,” she said. “Tomorrow we go to the glass shop. We’ll buy a new piece before school comes. We won’t tell anyone until it’s fixed.”

Amir looked from the cardboard to the wobbling panel. His jaw worked, but he slid the paper into his pocket.

Rain-smell drifted into the stairwell as Nura and Amir hurried down the next afternoon. The sky was bruised purple, and the first drops tapped against the windows.

In the kitchen, Mama stood over a pot, steam fogging her glasses. She stirred a bubbling curry.

“Where are you two going?” she asked.

“Just to buy more tape,” Nura said quickly. “For the decorations.”

Mama glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing for a second at Nura’s too-bright smile, then softened. “Don’t stay long. The rain is coming.”

On the street below, motorbikes weaved around puddles. The evening market was setting up, stalls clanging open, the smell of frying chicken and grilled satay drifting through the damp air.

Uncle Rahman’s glass-and-aluminium shop sat between a tailor and a phone repair stall. Sheets of glass, mirrors, and metal frames leaned against the front. A small bell jingled as they pushed the door.

“Peace be upon you, Uncle,” Nura said, slamming the damp cardboard onto the counter.

“And peace be upon you, girl,” he replied, adjusting his thick glasses. “You look like the sky is chasing you.”

“I need a piece of glass,” she said. “Curved like this.” She pointed at Amir’s shaky drawing. “This size.” She emptied her savings jar onto the counter. Crumpled notes and coins rolled and clinked.

Uncle Rahman squinted at the numbers, then at the sketch. He held the cardboard at arm’s length, then close.

“Curved glass, ah?” he said slowly. “Custom. At least three days. Maybe more. And…” He tapped his calculator. “Around three hundred ringgit.”

Nura’s fingers tightened on the counter.

“What about normal glass?” Amir asked. “Flat. We bend it.”

“You want to break it before you even use it?” Uncle Rahman snorted. He rapped a flat sheet with his knuckle. “This one doesn’t bend. And plastic will sag. For butterflies, you don’t want sharp edges falling on them.”

Rain began to hammer on the tin awning. Water streaked down the glass door.

Nura scooped her coins back into the jar with clumsy hands.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, forcing the words. “Sorry for… wasting your time.”

He waved a hand. “No waste. Come back when you build me a whole butterfly zoo.”

Outside, the rain hit them like a curtain. Within seconds, their clothes clung to their skin. They ran, shoes splashing through growing streams.

By the time they reached the shophouse, water flowed down the stairwell like a tiny waterfall. Their footsteps squelched.

On the rooftop, wind had found every weak point. The batik cloth flapped wildly, one corner torn free. More glass pieces lay scattered.

The taped panel had given up. A section of the Crystal House gaped open. Beyond the opening, butterflies drifted freely, some circling above the rooftop, others clinging to the mango tree.

“No,” Nura breathed.

A bright orange butterfly caught a gust and spun toward the edge. She dropped her jar—coins scattering—and snatched a net from its hook.

“Take the other one!” she shouted to Amir.

They ran, nets slicing through the rain-thick air. Nura swung and caught two butterflies in one clumsy scoop. Their wings tapped against the mesh. She eased them into a spare cage, hands trembling.

Another pair fluttered just beyond her reach. Amir lunged, his foot sliding on the wet concrete. He fell to one knee, net crashing down empty.

A few bright wings slipped over the edge of the roof and vanished into the grey curtain of rain.

Footsteps thudded on the stairs. Dada appeared at the top, his shirt damp, his cap speckled with rain. He stopped just inside the gate.

Broken glass glittered at his feet. The Crystal House yawned open. Butterflies clung to the outside of the mango tree.

“What happened?” His voice was thin.

Nura’s tongue felt like a stone. The truth rose to her lips, hot and heavy.

“The wind,” she heard herself say. “The wind knocked over the fan. It hit the glass.”

The lie hung between them.

Dada crouched slowly, knees cracking. He picked up a long, curved piece of glass between thumb and forefinger. His hand shook slightly. He took a short breath that turned into a cough. It rattled in his chest.

Thunder rolled overhead.

Dada said nothing more on the rooftop.

He moved with careful steps, closing every cage that still had a door. His slippers slid a little on the wet floor, and once he put a hand on a table to steady himself. He did not look at the open side of the Crystal House for more than a second.

“Amir, go home now,” he said quietly. “Tell your mother I will call later.”

Amir hesitated, glancing at Nura, then nodded and slipped past Dada down the stairs.

Downstairs, the apartment smelled of fried shallots and damp clothes. Dada sank into his usual chair by the window. His shoulders rounded.

Mama stood in front of him, the blister pack of medicine in her hand again. Only one tablet remained.

“They called again this afternoon,” she said, voice low. “Friday, they said. No more delay, Dad.”

Nura stood in the kitchen doorway, fingers pressed against the frame. The cold from her wet clothes had seeped into her bones, but her face burned.

Dada nodded once. He looked at the last tablet for a long moment, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

On the cupboard handle nearby, his only good batik shirt hung, freshly ironed. His fingers reached out and smoothed the fabric.

Outside, the call to the sunset prayer rose from the masjid loudspeakers.

“Come, children,” Dada called, opening his eyes. “Wash for prayer, then pray.”

Water splashed in the small bathroom. Nura rubbed her face and arms.

They spread the thin prayer mat on the living room floor, its edges curling. Dada stood at the front, Nura by his right, Yusuf fidgeting behind, toy car in one hand.

Dada’s voice during the prayer was low but steady. Each verse flowed out, soft and familiar. Nura followed the motions, but her mind kept jumping back to the rooftop—the falling fan, the cracking glass, the butterflies disappearing into the rain.

When they finished the prayer, Dada raised his hands.

“O Allah,” he began, “put blessing in our small garden.”

His palms trembled slightly.

“Make our income honest and good,” he continued, each word slow. “Give this old heart enough strength to work and to show children Your tiny miracles in the wings and leaves.”

His voice caught on “heart”. He cleared his throat and went on, quieter.

Yusuf rolled his toy car along the edge of the prayer mat, the wheels making a soft clicking sound.

Nura stared at the pattern under her knees. A dark spot appeared where a tear fell, then another. Her shoulders shook. She pressed her lips together, but a small sound escaped.

Dada finished his prayer and wiped his hands over his face. He lowered them and saw her hunched shoulders, the way her fists pressed into her thighs.

He said nothing.

The room hummed with distant traffic and the last patters of rain on the window.

Nura took a breath that hitched halfway. She pushed herself up and crossed to the corner where her savings jar sat, half-hidden behind a stack of old magazines.

Her fingers left damp prints on the glass as she picked it up. The coins clinked.

She carried the jar back and set it beside Dada’s prayer mat with both hands. The plastic base made a dull thud.

“I broke the Crystal House,” she said, the words tumbling out. “It wasn’t the wind. I pulled the fan, and it hit the glass, and I… I covered it and said it was a pot. We went to the glass shop, but my money is not enough. The butterflies that flew away… that’s my fault too.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the jar. A coin slid down the inside wall with a small scrape.

“This money is for the glass,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “Or for your medicine. Whichever you need more.”

The apartment seemed to hold its breath.

Yusuf stopped rolling his car. The faint call of a distant train drifted through the open window.

Dada did not speak. For a long half-minute, he simply looked at her, his face unreadable in the dim light.

Then he reached out and placed his hand gently on her head. His palm was warm and a little rough. His fingers slid down to cup the back of her neck for a moment, then rested on her shoulder.

The sky over Kuala Lumpur was still dark blue when Dada tapped on Nura’s door before the dawn prayer.

“Nura,” he called softly. “Wake up. We have work.”

She blinked herself out of a shallow, tangled sleep. Her school uniform hung on the chair, but today she grabbed an old T-shirt and track pants instead.

In the kitchen, the air was cool. Dada already had a small torchlight in one hand and a net in the other. His cap sat straight on his head. A faint line of tiredness shadowed his eyes, but his back was upright.

“Peace be upon you,” she murmured.

“And peace be upon you,” he replied. He handed her another net and a small, empty cage. “We pray the dawn prayer, then we go up.”

They prayed together in the quiet pre-dawn.

On the rooftop, the air was cool and damp. Puddles from yesterday’s storm glimmered. The Crystal House loomed in the half-light, its broken side a dark mouth. Tape hung loose, the batik cloth drooping.

Amir arrived a few minutes later, hair sticking up, T-shirt inside out.

“My mother said I can help for one hour,” he yawned. “Then homework.”

Dada nodded. “Good. We will borrow the neighbours’ roofs first.”

The gate to the next rooftop stood open. Beyond it, a few hibiscus bushes and a low mango tree reached toward the brightening sky.

“Move slowly,” Dada said. “Look for the ones we know. The marked wings.”

They fanned out, nets held low. The city around them began to wake. Somewhere, a motorbike engine coughed to life. A distant train rattled.

On a neighbour’s mango branch, Nura spotted a familiar shape. A black butterfly with a strip of fading yellow along its wing rested with wings closed.

She stepped closer, feeling the rough concrete under her bare feet. She lifted the net slowly and lowered it in one smooth motion.

The butterfly fluttered once, then settled inside the mesh.

“I got one,” she called softly.

“Alhamdulillah,” Dada replied from near the hibiscus.

They worked like that as the sky shifted from blue to pale gold. On another roof, with permission, they searched among potted pandan and aloe vera. They found a Raja Brooke’s birdwing clinging to the underside of a leaf, its green markings dull in the early light. Amir’s hands shook as he guided it into a cage.

By the time the sun peeked between two high-rise buildings, they had gathered most of the rare butterflies back. Their cages lined a table, each one dotted with soft, moving colours.

The Crystal House still stood broken, but now a thick rope stretched around it in a wide circle. Nura had tied it herself, looping it through chair legs and around a pole. A piece of cardboard hung from the rope, her handwriting big and clear:

“Glass broken. Please stay back.”

She smoothed the edges of the sign with her thumb. The tape stuck firmly.

Dada stood beside her, his good batik shirt now buttoned. He took her savings jar from a shelf and set it back down carefully.

“We talk about the glass and the money after the visit,” he said. “First, we do our work.”

By mid-morning, the lane below filled with the sound of a bus engine. Children’s voices floated up, high and excited.

“They’re here,” Amir said, peering over the low wall.

Teacher Faridah appeared at the top of the stairs first, panting slightly, her scarf pinned neatly despite the climb. Behind her, Mrs. Salmah from the school office held a small envelope and a clipboard. A line of students followed, faces bright with curiosity.

“Peace be upon you,” Dada called, stepping forward with a wide smile. “Welcome to Tiny Wings Rooftop Garden.”

“And peace be upon you,” the children chorused.

Dada gestured toward the taped-off Crystal House. The rope and the sign were impossible to miss.

“We had an accident with the glass,” he said calmly. “My helper knocked something, so this part is closed today. Safety first. But we still have many guests with us.” He waved toward the rows of plants and the smaller cages.

Some students craned their necks to see the broken dome. Others pressed toward a table where bright butterflies rested on sliced oranges.

Teacher Faridah smiled at Nura. “You must be busy helping your grandfather,” she said.

Nura felt her cheeks warm. She nodded and stepped aside to let the children pass, careful not to block the sign.

The visit unfolded in a gentle rush. Dada showed them a row of chrysalises attached to a thin branch, their green shells speckled with gold dots. He held the branch steady while the children leaned in, eyes wide.

“Inside here,” he said, “something is changing. You cannot see it from outside, but Allah is working.”

He looked at Nura. “Come, hold this,” he said.

She stepped forward. Her hands were steadier than they had been in days. She took the twig between thumb and forefinger, feeling its slight weight, the tiny bumps of the chrysalises.

The air was warm now, filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the murmur of children’s voices. Below, the faint echo of the call to the midday prayer began to float up from the masjid.

As Nura held the branch, one chrysalis twitched. She froze.

A thin line appeared down its middle. Slowly, it split. A damp, crumpled butterfly pushed its way out, legs gripping the empty shell. It hung there, wings folded and small.

The children around her fell silent.

Bit by bit, the butterfly’s wings began to expand. Veins filled. Colours deepened. It clung to the twig in her fingers, testing its hold.

Nura’s cut palm tingled faintly where the glass had sliced it. She shifted her grip, keeping the twig steady, not glancing toward the taped-off Crystal House.

The new butterfly took its first shaky steps along the twig, its wings opening wider with each move. A tiny drop of moisture fell from its body onto her thumb.

She did not wipe it away.

Dada’s voice flowed on beside her, gentle and sure, as he spoke to the children about how Allah brings life from stillness. Nura watched the butterfly climb, its wings almost dry now, the light catching on their fresh colour as it held fast to the branch in her hands.