Chan Wei Loong, 20, fresh out of NS, sleeps on

his parents’ 1982 HDB couch, still smelling of

old fish sauce and regret. His only income is

the $200 he saves each month from selling his NS

uniform buttons to collectors — a kiasu hustle

only Kampong Glam aunties understand. One rainy

Tuesday, he buys a Toto ticket with his last $2,

using the same numbers his late grandmother

whispered during her last kopi session:

3714223341. He forgets to check.

Three days later, the TV blares: he’s the sole

winner. $3.2 million. His neighbour, Madam Lim,

screams in Teochew and throws a chicken leg at

his door. His mother faints into a bowl of bak

kut teh.

That night, the ceiling above his bed drips

black water. Not leak — weeping. A woman in a

faded blue sarong appears, humming “Bunga

Tanjung” while folding laundry only she can see.

The HDB ghost. Local lore says if you win big

and don’t share, the spirit claims your next

breath. Chan tries calling the police. They

laugh. “Bro, you win lotto, you got ghost?

That’s Singapore.”

His FDW, Rina from Medan, doesn’t scream. She

just points at the ghost and says, “She used to

clean my auntie’s flat in Johor Bahru. Died when

the landlord threw her out for asking for bonus

during Hari Raya.” Rina doesn’t run. She brings

the ghost a plate of sambal stingray. The ghost

eats. Smiles. Starts singing in Malay.

Chan tries to sell the flat. Estate agent says,

“No one buys haunted units unless the ghost is

nice.” He tries to move out. The ghost sits on

his new mattress. Rina says, “You owe her. She

kept your grandmother’s spirit warm when you

were too busy studying for OLevels.”

The hard rule bites: under Singapore’s 1968

Public Housing Act, any property with unreported

supernatural activity must be declared — and if

declared, the state reclaims 40% of windfall for

“social harmony fund.” Chan’s lawyer whispers:

“Win lotto, get ghost, lose half. That’s the law.

No appeal.”

Chan panics. He calls Rina’s employer — who’s

his own mother. “Mum, she’s not leaving!” His

mother says, “She’s the only one who didn’t cry

when you failed your chemistry. You think she’s

here for the food? She’s here because you forgot

to say thank you.”

So Chan does something no one expects. He takes

Rina and the ghost to Bedok Market. Buys three

whole Musang Kings. Sits on a plastic stool.

Feeds them all. Rina laughs. The ghost laughs. A

whole stall of aunties joins in, clapping. One

says, “Finally, a Singaporean who knows money

ain’t worth a damn if you ain’t sharing it with

the ones who held you up.”

Next morning, the ghost is gone. The HDB ceiling

is dry. The lottery office calls: Chan didn’t

claim. He donated half to a new migrant worker

welfare fund. The other half? He used it to buy

Rina a oneway ticket home… and a year’s supply

of durian delivered to her village every season.

Rina sent back a photo: her in front of a new

school built with Chan’s money, holding a sign

that says, “Terima kasih, boss. Now I teach the

kids not to fear ghosts. Just feed ‘em.”

Chan still sleeps on the couch. But now, every

full moon, he leaves a plate of kueh lapis on

the window. And sometimes, just sometimes, he

hears someone humming “Bunga Tanjung” — and

laughing.