We crossed into Malaysia by train.

A taxi took us to JB Sentral, immigration formalities folded into the journey. From there, the train northwards to Kuala Lumpur. That journey remains one of the gentlest memories of the trip. It was long but unhurried. Outside the window, palm plantations and open stretches softened the view. The movement felt expansive. Less contained than Singapore.

In Kuala Lumpur, the heat returned with insistence.

We climbed the steps of Batu Caves in the evening, choosing to avoid the harshest sun. Nearly three hundred steps have a way of reminding you of your breathing. Earlier that day, the shaded pathways of KL Bird Park offered relief beneath a canopy of trees.

Temples followed — Sri Mahamariamman Temple and Guan Di Temple — spaces where incense and colour created a different rhythm from the city’s skyline.

One evening we went in search of fireflies. The excursion promised something luminous. It turned out underwhelming. The brief speedboat ride was more memorable than the flickers we had come to see. Since then, whenever fireflies appear on screen, we exchange a knowing look and laugh. It became less a disappointment and more a private footnote about expectation.

We visited the Petronas Twin Towers, looked out from KL Tower, and wandered through Petaling Street. Kuala Lumpur felt layered — modern towers rising alongside temples and market streets.

On our final day, we hired a taxi to Melaka. The drive shifted the tone of the journey. Melaka offered glimpses of earlier trade routes and colonial façades, its riverfront streets moving at a gentler cadence. It was only half a day, yet it lingered.

Then we flew to India, paused at home for a few days, and returned to Dubai.

When Malaysia returns to memory now, it is not the towers or temples that surface first. It is the train window. The climb at Batu Caves. The humid air settling in. And the quiet laughter over fireflies that did not quite glow as promised.