She drives the same Proton Prevé her husband
died in, wheels still scented with his kopi and
sweat. Third night on the job, the rearview
mirror flickers — no passenger, but the seatback
damp like someone just stood up. The radio
crackles static, then plays “Leng Sua” on loop —
a Malay lullaby her motherinlaw used to hum at
Tiong Bahru void deck.
The HDB flat on Choa Chu Kang Road was supposed
to be hers by next month, final payment due. But
the bank called. His debts, hidden in lottery
tickets and uncles’ loans, now hang like wet
sarong on her shoulders. She skips dinner, eats
kaya toast in the car, checks the time between
fares.
On the seventh night, the back seat creaks. A
voice, not from speakers, whispers: “Your flat.
One night. One shift. Swap.” The air smells like
burnt joss paper and fish curry. She grips the
wheel. The car’s odometer resets to zero.
Rule one: You don’t ask who’s in the back. Rule
two: If the meter hits 99.99, you stop. Or you
become the next driver.
She drives to the old kampong site near Bukit
Timah, where the old temple still burns incense
for lost souls. She leaves a plate of kueh lapis
on the dashboard. At 3.17am, the car parks
itself outside Block 418. The door unlocks.
Inside, the flat’s lights are on — exactly as
her husband left them. The fridge hums. The TV
plays a 1965 Merdeka speech, no sound.
She doesn’t move. The car’s engine dies. The
back seat is empty.
Next morning, the bank calls again. The debt’s
gone. The title deed sits on her pillow, stamped
with a red seal she’s never seen — a dragon
coiled around a Grab logo.
She starts driving again. Always at night.
Always silent. Always checks the rearview.
Sometimes, the meter hits 99.99.
She never stops.
