The old well at Tiong Bahru’s edge cracked open

during the monsoon, revealing a submerged pantry

beneath the earth. Its wooden shelves held jars

sealed with wax, each labelled in faded ink:

Pulau Ubin, Chinatown 1943, Father’s Last Feast.

The water seeped into the soil, turning it black

and sweet.

She found herself standing barefoot in the

kitchen, knees stained with mud, hands clutching

a mortar. Her name was not hers — the only thing

left was the taste of glutinous rice steeped in

ash. A bowl sat before her, steaming. She ate.

The memory of a child’s laughter vanished like

smoke.

Her father stood in the doorway, back straight,

eyes fixed on the ceiling. He did not speak. But

the air thickened when she reached for the rice

sack — a rule enforced by his presence alone: Do

not touch the white grain unless you’ve

remembered what it means.

She tried to recall her mother’s face. Instead,

she wept into the pot. The broth turned red. She

tasted iron. The next day, the rice cooked

itself. She watched as the grains moved without

fire, swirling in the pot like drowned ants.

When she stirred, the spoon rang once — then

fell silent.

At midnight, the well began to hum. The walls of

the kitchen peeled back like burnt paper,

revealing a tunnel lined with photographs: men

in uniforms, women with baskets, children

dragging bundles through flooded streets. The

images were not from any archive. They were from

the food she’d eaten.

She pulled a jar from the shelf. Chinatown 1943.

Inside, the rice was dry but warm. She poured it

into the pot. The fire lit without kindling. As

it boiled, she saw her own hand holding a knife —

not cutting meat, but slicing a man’s wrist. The

blood dripped into the rice. She screamed. The

scream was swallowed by the house.

The father stepped forward. His voice never came.

But he lifted the lid. Steam rose. The rice had

become solid, formed into a small, perfect skull.

She dropped the bowl. It shattered.

The next morning, the kitchen was gone. Only a

patch of scorched earth remained, littered with

empty jars. The well closed. No one remembered

the house.

But on Sundays, the hawker stall near the HDB

void deck sells Kong Sui Noodles — dark, chewy,

tasting faintly of salt and fear. The vendor

wears a scar across his palm. He never speaks.

And if you ask for extra chilli, he shakes his

head slowly, like someone remembering a word too

late.