The HDB flat on Block 413, Tiong Bahru, leaks
every monsoon, but Lina Tan’s mother slams the
door when she suggests moving—“We stay. We
endure. Like your father did before the Japanese
took him.” The flat’s damp walls hum with old
prayers, salted fish drying on the balcony, and
the smell of kopio left cooling since 1963. Lina
works at the Ministry of Labour, typing forms
for new union registrations, her promotion due
next week—until her supervisor, Mr. Chua,
“accidentally” misfiles her entire dossier
during the Merdeka Day audit.
That night, the kitchen tap drips bloodred water.
Lina finds no leak, only a wet footprint in the
shape of a bare foot, too small for any adult.
The next morning, her typewriter ribbon is
replaced with fresh silk thread—handspun, dyed
with betel nut. Her mother mutters, “That boy
from the old kampong near Sembawang… they say he
drowned when the Japs burned the rice silos.”
Lina’s promotion review is moved up. Mr. Chua
arrives with the Personnel Officer, smirking, as
they open her file—empty. The documents are gone.
But on her desk, a folded piece of newspaper
from 1947 lies beneath the blotter: a missing
persons ad for a boy named Amir, age 14, last
seen near the old railway tracks. That night,
the ceiling cracks open again. This time, water
pools into the shape of a hand, pointing to the
cupboard where Lina’s mother keeps her father’s
old uniform. Inside: a rusted compass, and a
lock of hair tied with a red thread.
Lina takes the compass to the HDB maintenance
crew. They refuse to fix the flat. “That block’s
cursed,” one says. “Boy drowned in ’43. His
spirit still walks the corridors. You don’t
touch what the Occupation left behind.” The rule
bites: no repairs allowed in blocks built over
wartime graves without written consent from the
Ministry of Culture—which takes six months.
The night before the promotion decision, Mr.
Chua plants forged letters in Lina’s locker—
evidence she leaked union secrets to the
Communists. The security guard finds them. Lina
is summoned. She walks past the void deck, where
the wind carries the scent of charred rice and
durian peel. A child’s laughter echoes. Then
silence.
She opens her flat door. Every wall is painted
in chalk: maps of kampongs, dates of raids,
names of those who vanished. The kitchen sink is
full of fresh flowers—frangipani, jasmine,
hibiscus—all native, all blooming out of season.
On the table: a single boiled egg, wrapped in a
cloth stitched with Malay script. She reads it
by lamplight: “I wait for you to stop being
afraid.”
The next morning, the Personnel Officer walks in
with her promotion papers. Mr. Chua is suspended.
The dossier was never lost—it was returned. All
documents restored, stamped with the seal of the
old Straits Settlements, verified by a clerk who
died in 1948.
Lina’s mother cries as she eats the egg. “He
loved you,” she whispers.
That night, the tap stops leaking. The walls dry.
The compass on Lina’s shelf ticks once, then
stills.
She leaves a plate of kaya toast and teh tarik
on the windowsill.
The next morning, it’s gone.
But the jasmine vine climbing the balcony? It
blooms red.
