Aquaria KLCC: The Fish Who Swam Backwards Through Time

The first time Lina touched the fish, she didn’t mean to travel through time.

She just wanted to see if its scales were as cold as they looked.

It was a Saturday — the kind where KL’s sun pressed down like a warm hand on your head, and the air smelled like rain that never came. Lina’s mum had brought her to Aquaria KLCC “for educational enrichment,” which really meant: You’ve been drawing fish in your maths book again, young lady.

Lina didn’t mind. She loved Aquaria. Loved the hush of the underwater tunnels, the flicker of angelfish like living kites, the way sharks glided like silent bombers through blue gloom.

But today, something was different.

At the Amazon River exhibit — past the piranhas, past the electric eels — floated a creature so big it looked like it belonged in a legend. An arapaima. Older than your grandma’s recipe book. Longer than Lina’s school bench. Its body shimmered like wet bronze, and its eyes… they didn’t just watch. They waited.

Lina pressed her palm against the glass.

And the glass disappeared.

WHOOSH.

One second: cool AC, squeaky sneakers, Mum saying, “Don’t lean so close, Lina!”

Next second: humid air, bare feet in squelchy mud, and the clack-clack-clack of a red-and-white tram rolling down a street lined with wooden shophouses.

Lina gasped.

The Petronas Towers? Gone.

In their place: bicycles with baskets, men in songkoks selling pisang goreng from carts, a banner flapping in the breeze: “MERDEKA 1957!”

She spun around. People in bright baju kurung and sarongs laughed, waved tiny paper flags. A boy — about her age, maybe 12 — sprinted past her, barefoot, chasing a kite shaped like a fish.

“Amir, you rascal! Come back before you miss the parade!” a woman shouted from a wooden porch.

Amir.

Lina’s breath caught.

That was her grandfather’s name.

The boy turned — just for a second — and grinned. His eyes sparkled like the arapaima’s scales.

Then — WHOOSH — the world blurred.

She was back at Aquaria. Mum hadn’t even blinked.

“Lina? You okay? You zoned out.”

Lina looked down.

In her pocket — a crumpled ticket stub.

“Grand Majestic Cinema — 31 August 1957 — 2 PM Show — Admission: 30 Sen.”

Her hands trembled.

That night, under her bedsheet with a torch, Lina stared at the ticket. It smelled like old paper and rain. She’d asked Mak Cik Salmah — her grandma — about Grandpa Amir at dinner.

Mak Cik had gone quiet. Stirred her teh tarik slowly.

“He was… a river child,” she finally said. “Always down by the Klang. Even when we told him not to. One day… he didn’t come back. Just his sandals. Left by the water.”

Lina had pressed. “Did you look for him?”

Mak Cik’s eyes got shiny. “Every day for a year. Then… you learn to carry love without a body.”

Lina didn’t sleep.

The next day, she returned to Aquaria. Alone. (She told Mum she was “studying marine ecosystems.” Technically true.)

She found the arapaima. Floating. Waiting.

She touched the glass.

WHOOSH.

1972.

This time, she landed near a construction site. Bulldozers. Men in yellow helmets. A sign: “KLCC PROJECT — FUTURE HEART OF KUALA LUMPUR.”

And there — arguing with a man in a suit — was Amir. Older now. Maybe 27. Taller. Fierce.

“You can’t pave over the riverbank!” he shouted. “There are stories here! Spirits! Memories!”

The man in the suit sighed. “Progress, Mr. Amir. You can’t stop it.”

Amir kicked a rock. “Watch me.”

Lina wanted to run to him. Grandpa! It’s me! I’m from the future!

But her feet wouldn’t move. A worker walked right through her — like she was made of mist.

She wasn’t really here. She was a ghost in time.

Then — she saw it. Tucked under Amir’s arm — a sketchbook. Her sketchbook. The one she drew in every day. Except… this one was old. Worn. Filled with drawings of fish. Rivers. And one recurring image: a man with fish scales for skin, standing in the Klang River.

The River Man.

Before she could react — WHOOSH — back to Aquaria.

Her sketchbook was in her bag.

She opened it.

On the last page — a new drawing. Not hers.

It showed a boy (Amir) handing something to the River Man. And beneath it, scribbled in faded pencil:

“I stay so you can go.”

Third visit. She didn’t hesitate.

WHOOSH.

1998. Opening Week of Aquaria KLCC.

The tunnel was empty. Just the blue glow, the quiet hum of filters. And there — standing before the arapaima tank — was Amir. Now in his 50s. Grey at the temples. Quiet eyes.

He placed his palm on the glass.

Just like Lina had.

“I know you’re watching,” he whispered.

Lina’s heart pounded. He knows?

“I’ve been waiting for you, Lina.”

She gasped. Her name. He said her name.

“You’re the one who draws the fish, right? Leaves them by the river in your time?”

Tears welled. “Grandpa… I… I want to bring you home.”

Amir smiled. Sad. Soft. “I never left, Sayang. I’m right where I need to be.”

He turned. Looked right at her. Even though she was invisible. Even though she was years away.

“The River Man chose me. To guard the stories. To keep the magic alive. When cities forget their rivers… they forget themselves.”

“But Mak Cik misses you!” Lina cried — though no sound came out.

“I know,” Amir whispered. “But love doesn’t need a body. Just a memory. And you? You’re my memory, Lina. You’re the one who remembers.”

He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small, smooth stone — painted like a fish. Placed it on the ledge beneath the tank.

Then he walked away.

WHOOSH.

Back to now.

Lina stumbled. Her mum caught her.

“Lina! You’re pale. Too much staring at fish?”

Lina didn’t answer. She ran to the arapaima tank.

Looked down.

There, on the ledge — just like in 1998 — sat a small painted stone. A fish.

She picked it up. Warm. Like it had been waiting.

That night, Lina sat with Mak Cik Salmah on the porch. Fireflies blinked in the garden. The city hummed beyond the trees.

Lina placed the stone in Mak Cik’s hand.

Mak Cik froze. Then… she smiled. Not a sad smile. A knowing one.

“He gave you this, didn’t he?”

Lina nodded.

“He always did love leaving little treasures.”

Lina took a deep breath. “Mak Cik… Grandpa didn’t disappear. He… he stayed. To protect the river. The stories.”

Mak Cik closed her eyes. Squeezed the stone. “I always hoped… that he chose something beautiful.”

They sat in silence. The kind that doesn’t need words.

The next week, Lina returned to Aquaria. But the arapaima was gone.

In its place? A new plaque:

“Guardian of the Klang — This exhibit dedicated to the unseen keepers of our waters. May their stories never sink.”

And beside it — a small statue. A boy. Holding a fish-shaped kite. Smiling.

Lina touched the glass.

The water inside shimmered.

For just a second — the ripples moved… backwards.

She smiled.

“I remember you, Grandpa.”

Epilogue — One Year Later

Lina’s sketchbook was published. “The Children of the Klang: Drawings from the River’s Memory.” The city installed a small memorial near the riverbank — a bronze plaque with Amir’s name, and his favorite quote:

“Time’s not a line. It’s a river. And some fish… they swim against the current on purpose.”

Mak Cik Salmah visits it every Sunday. Brings kuih. Sits awhile.

Lina still draws. But now, her sketches include tramlines, kampung rooftops, and a man with fish-scale skin, smiling from the river.

Sometimes, when she touches water — a puddle, a fountain, her bath — she feels a ripple.

And if she closes her eyes?

She can almost hear bicycle bells.

And laughter.

And the whisper of a fish… swimming backwards through time.

—

THE END