1963, Tiong Bahru Block 42. The clock on the

kitchen wall ticks backward — not broken, but

breathing. It was gifted by a Malay ghostcatcher

who said time in this flat eats grief.

Tenyearold Arif doesn’t know. He only knows his

mother’s hands shake when she counts his exam

scores, and the way she whispers to the clock

like it’s a person.

His OLevel results come in three days. She has

not slept since the mock papers. Each night, he

hears her sobbing into her sari at 3am, the

clock’s pendulum groaning like a drowning man.

On the fourth night, he touches the brass face.

The world lurches. He is back in the same room —

but his mother is younger. Her hair is darker.

The radio plays “Ching Chong” by the Malay

orchestra. He is nine. The clock’s face now

bears a fresh crack.

He passes the math paper. She smiles. The next

morning, her right hand is numb. The doctor says

it’s stress. Arif doesn’t tell her he saw her at

18, dancing at a Hari Raya open house, laughing

with a man who isn’t his father. The clock took

that year.

He tries again. This time, he fails physics on

purpose. She doesn’t cry. She packs his books.

He wakes up in 1958. She is twenty. She is

selling kueh at the Kampong Glam night market.

He sees her lick her fingers clean after selling

a piece of kueh lapis — the same habit she has

now. The clock’s chime is louder. Her left eye

is milky. Blind in one eye from a stray bullet

during the 1956 riots. He didn’t know. He never

asked.

He passes his papers. She cooks him bak kut teh.

Her fingers tremble. He touches the clock again.

It is 1971. He is sixteen. She is in bed, grey

and quiet. The HDB flat is new. The clock is

gone. On the wall: a framed photo. Her, holding

him as a baby. Behind her: the ghostcatcher,

bowing out the door. The receipt in his pocket:

1963. Paid in tears. One tear per year stolen.

The result? He sits at her bedside, rubbing her

feet with coconut oil. She stirs. “You pass?”

she whispers. He nods. She smiles — the first

full one he remembers. The clock didn’t fix time.

It made her live long enough to see him graduate.

He never told her how much she paid. The next

morning, he takes the bus to NS. She waves from

the window, her good eye bright. He doesn’t look

back. Not yet. She’s still breathing. That’s

enough.