In the smoky heat of 1963, Mei Lin, temple

volunteer at the Kallang River shrine, sleeps on

a mat beside the incense altar — not by choice,

but because her kampong was razed for the first

HDB block. She wins Unit 417B in the secondphase

lottery, her name scribbled in pen on the

Housing Board’s damp plywood board. No one else

in Block 12 has a ghost story yet. She brings

her mother’s porcelain Guanyin, nails it to the

wall, and lights a joss stick every dusk.

The next morning, the neighbour’s door — Unit

418 — is sealed with red paper talismans. Mrs.

Lim, the building’s only other woman who

remembers the Japanese years, whispers: “That

flat’s been claimed. Before the bricks dried,

someone died screaming they’d never leave.” Mei

Lin doesn’t believe in spirits. She believes in

queues. In merit. In kiasu spirit — the only

thing that got her past the Chinese, Malay, and

Indian applicants all trying to get into the

same block. She cleans the floor, scrubs the

toilet, polishes the window. She works harder

than anyone. She takes extra shifts at the

temple, mopping blood from sacrificial offerings,

praying for luck.

On the third night, the Guanyin statue cracks.

No wind. No quake. Just a slow fissure down the

cheek, like a tear. That same night, the

electric fan in 418 starts spinning backward.

The water in Mei Lin’s kettle boils without fire.

A child’s voice, clear as a school bell, sings a

Malay lullaby — the one her auntie used to hum

before the kampong burned.

She learns the rule: if you die in a place meant

for another, your soul stays until the new

occupant leaves. The spirit in 418? A Malay girl,

14, who died of fever during the Occupation. Her

father, a Britishcooked clerk, had bribed the

Housing Board to reserve the flat for his

daughter’s return. She never came back. But her

ghost never left. And now, she wants Mei Lin out.

Mei Lin doesn’t cry. She goes to the temple. She

kneels before the altar, not to pray — to

bargain. She offers her own name in the next

lottery. Her name. Her chance. Her kiasu spirit.

She will give up her flat if the spirit leaves.

The incense smoke curls into the shape of a

small hand. It grips her wrist. Cold. Real.

On the day the first HDB residents are sworn in

by the new Ministry of National Development, Mei

Lin packs her things. She leaves the Guanyin.

She leaves the joss sticks. She walks out of

417B with only a tin of kaya and a folded letter

addressed to the ghost girl: You win. I go to

Block 14.

That night, Unit 418’s door opens. A single pair

of tiny slippers sits on the mat. Inside, the

kettle boils clean. The fan spins forward.

Mei Lin moves to Block 14. She doesn’t get the

flat she wanted. But she gets something else:

the ghost stops haunting the building. And for

the first time, the HDB block is quiet. Not

because no one’s there. But because someone

finally let go.

The next month, the temple volunteer is promoted

to lead the new Merdeka shrine at the junction

of Geylang and Jalan Besar — where the ghosts of

colonisers, occupiers, and dreamers all learn to

share the same incense.