1953, postoccupation Singapore. The British

still hold the docks, but the kampongs are

crumbling into HDB blocks, and the air smells of

wet cement and kaya toast. In Tiong Bahru Block

78, 17yearold Mei Lin records a video on her

father’s stolen Kodak Brownie—shaking her phone

over the empty stall where the “Kopi Ghost”

supposedly vanishes at 3am, whispering “TikTok

like, or you die.” She laughs. The clip gets 200

views. One of them is from a number that doesn’t

exist.

That night, the power cuts. The fan stops. In

the dark, the smell of burnt coffee fills her

room. The wall beside her bed peels back—not

paint, but paper. Old newspaper, 1942, headline:

“JAPANESE ORDER: NO MORE SINGAPOREAN SPIRITS TO

HAUNT.” Beneath it, a name: Lim Ah Kow. The

ghost who sold kopi to soldiers during the

Occupation. He didn’t vanish—he was erased. The

Japanese burned his spirit into the walls when

he refused to serve them. His curse: only those

who record him, and mock him, must prove he

still exists. Or vanish too.

Mei Lin wakes with a blackened thumb. Her phone

screen shows one like. From “LimAhKow_1942.” The

number glows. She deletes the video. The fridge

door opens by itself. Inside: a chipped cup,

steaming, lukewarm. A note in Chinese characters

she can’t read—but her mother’s voice, from

memory, whispers: “Never refuse a ghost’s kopi.”

She doesn’t drink. The next morning, her younger

brother’s school uniform is folded on the floor.

His name tag is missing. Only his socks remain.

His school is 2km away. He never left the flat.

She goes to the void deck at 2:58am. Her phone’s

camera is on. She screams into the lens: “Prove

you’re real!” The air shivers. The concrete

under her feet cracks open. A hand—brown,

cracked, smelling of burnt sugar and gunpowder—

reaches up. Not to grab. To hold out a coin. One

old Japanese yen. The rule bites: if she takes

it, she becomes his new keeper. If she refuses,

her brother’s soul gets added to the wall. She

picks it up. The coin burns her palm. The crack

seals. The cup reappears on her table. The phone

buzzes. One more like. From “LimAhKow_1942.” Now

the number has 1,000 followers. She stares at

her brother’s empty bed. The kettle whistles.

She pours the coffee. Drinks it cold. Outside,

the dawn comes. The HDB block hums. No one else

sees the new name etched on the lift button: Lim

Ah Kow. No one else remembers. But Mei Lin now

wakes every night to the smell of kopi—and the

silent, waiting like.