After six months in NS at Pulau Tekong, Raju
comes home to Block 43, Tampines — the concrete
shell of his childhood, now cracked with damp
and rumours. His mother, Aunty Lian, still
sweeps the void deck at 5am, her broom
whispering against tiles no one else dares touch.
She never speaks of his father, vanished during
the ’45 riots, but every dusk she leaves a plate
of steamed buns by the lift shaft — for whom,
she never says.
The estate runs on unspoken rules: no lights
after midnight on Level 7, no walking barefoot
past the old water tank, no dating outside your
block without Mama’s blessing. The last rule bit
hardest when Raju started seeing Mei Lin from
Block 48 — her family runs the chilli crab stall
at the old hawker centre, her hands stained with
turmeric, her laughter loud enough to wake the
ghosts. They met under the starfruit tree,
fingers brushing over shared kaya toast, no
words needed. But when Aunty Lian found the
folded note in Raju’s pocket — Mei Lin’s name,
written in pencil — she didn’t shout. She lit
three joss sticks beside the lift, whispered to
the wall, and the next morning, the lift buttons
for Level 7 went dark.
No one fixed it. No one dared.
That week, the power cut for three nights. In
the dark, Raju heard the wet shuffle of slippers
on wet concrete — not human, not rat — and the
scent of burnt coconut oil. He followed it to
the void deck. Aunty Lian stood before the old
well, her back to him, murmuring to something
that didn’t breathe. “You took his soul,” she
said, “now you take his son’s future?” The air
thickened. The well’s shadow stretched like a
hand.
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t speak. He walked
to Block 48 at dawn, took Mei Lin’s hand, and
held it as the first bus rumbled past. She
didn’t ask why his eyes were red. He didn’t say.
By noon, the lift buttons lit again. Level 7.
That night, Aunty Lian left no buns. Instead,
she placed a single red envelope on Raju’s
pillow — inside, two train tickets to Johor
Bahru, and a photo of his father, smiling beside
a woman with Mei Lin’s eyes.
The estate didn’t change. But the rules did.
No one ever speaks of the well again.
But every Friday, someone leaves two plates of
buns — one for the living, one for the ones who
still collect rent.
