In a 1963 HDB flat in Kallang, Madam Lim Ah Mui,
27, brews tiger bone and betel nut paste for
feverish neighbours while her mother slaps her
wrist for “wasting time on ghosts.” The flat’s
third bedroom still smells of camphor and old
paper—left untouched since her grandfather’s
funeral, when the British left and the Japanese
had just gone. That night, the air turns cold as
wet sago pudding. The ghost appears: a thin man
in a frayed tweed suit, monocle cracked, holding
a teacup that never empties. He introduces
himself as Uncle Tan, 1952. He died midkneeling,
proposal ring still warm in his pocket, when a
British officer kicked his ancestral tablet into
the Singapore River. He’s been stuck since,
haunting the flat’s water tap, because in his
world, ghosts must marry before moving on—and he
picked Ah Mui’s greatgrandmother. The match
never happened. Now, he insists it’s her turn.
The arranged engagement to Razak, the Malay
butcher’s son from Geylang, is set for next moon.
His father brings durian cakes and a gold
bracelet—meant for Ah Mui’s wrist. But Uncle Tan,
who can’t touch solid things but can tip over
bowls and make radios play old Bing Crosby,
starts sabotaging the wedding prep. He
rearranges the betel nut offerings into the
shape of a heart. He makes Razak’s bicycle tyres
deflate every time he nears the flat. He sings
“Home Sweet Home” in broken Malay through the
wall. The neighbours complain. The imam sends a
warning. Ah Mui’s mother screams, “This is not
Chinese ghost business! This is kiasu nonsense!”
Ah Mui, tired of being the family’s quiet healer—
patching up broken bones with ginger poultices,
whispering to spirits who never answer—decides
to bargain. She offers Uncle Tan a new tablet,
carved with his name in both English and Jawi,
if he lets her marry Razak. He refuses. “The
British took my tablet,” he says, voice like wet
newspaper cracking. “I won’t let a Malay boy
take my bride.”
On the eve of the engagement, Ah Mui sneaks to
the old Chinese cemetery in Bukit Timah. She
digs up a rusted tin from under a broken
tombstone—her grandfather’s last act before he
vanished into the war. Inside: a letter from
1948, addressed to “My Future DaughterinLaw.” It
reads: “If you read this, the world changed.
Ghosts don’t haunt. They wait. And sometimes,
they marry the wrong girl because the system
won’t let them move.” She burns it.
The next morning, Razak arrives with his father.
Uncle Tan is waiting—floating above the rice
bowl on the altar. He lifts the teacup. It
spills. Not water. Bloodred betel juice. The
ghost kneels. Not to Ah Mui. To Razak. “I offer
you my wife,” he says, voice clear for the first
time. “She is the only one who understands what
it means to be caught between worlds.”
Razak blinks. Then laughs. Not cruel. Real.
“You’re a funny ghost,” he says. “But my mum
says ghosts don’t eat durian. You’re lying.”
Uncle Tan vanishes. The teacup shatters. The
bloodstain fades. The engagement proceeds. No
one mentions the ghost again. But on the wedding
day, when Ah Mui and Razak eat the red egg and
glutinous rice, a single drop of betel juice
falls from the ceiling—right onto Razak’s shoe.
He doesn’t wipe it off. He smiles.
Ah Mui keeps the teacup shard. She uses it to
measure ginger paste. The ghost never returns.
But every moon, the water tap in the third
bedroom drips once—just once—and smells faintly
of Earl Grey.
