The HDB block on Pasir Ris was built over a

kampong graveyard, and every night, the seventh

floor corridor hummed with the smell of burnt

joss paper and old soy sauce. No one lived there

anymore — not since the Collapse. The blackout

of ’58 had fried the grid, drowned the city in

flood, and left the British evacuation ships

sailing without looking back. Now, the only

power came from solarsiphoned streetlamps and

the whispers of things that still remembered how

to cook.

She was Corporal Lim Mei Lin, 19, NS recruit,

top in physical drills, bottom in morale reports.

Her father died selling char kway teow under a

tarpaulin when the Japanese bombed the old

Geylang market. His stall never closed. His

ghost still stirred woks in the dark, feeding

soldiers who passed through the block’s broken

stairwell. The curse: any recruit who eats his

food gains clarity — but loses ambition.

Officers who ate it resigned. NCOs who ate it

quit. The Army had a rule: don’t touch the food.

But Mei Lin’s name was on the promotion list.

Only one slot left. She needed the clarity.

On the third night of her ghost watch, she took

a plate. Char kway teow, blackened wok marks,

two prawns, one fried egg cracked just right.

The ghost didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She

tasted the salt of his sweat, the ash of his

funeral pyre, the sourness of a wife who never

got his pension. That night, she dreamed of her

mother’s hands stitching uniforms for British

officers — hands that never raised a voice,

never asked for more. When she woke, her drill

boots were tied with red thread. Her promotion

file was on the desk. But her name was crossed

out.

The next morning, they found her at the rooftop

antenna tower, climbing. Not to jump. To cut the

signal. The Army had installed a jammer to keep

ghosts from whispering through radios. She’d

spent weeks learning its frequency. If she broke

it, the ghost could speak. If she didn’t, she’d

never be an officer. The rules said: sabotage

state equipment = dishonourable discharge. But

the ghost had already taken her ambition. She

had nothing left to lose.

She climbed. The wind howled through rusted HDB

railings. Below, her platoon watched. No one

moved. No one shouted. They knew what the ghost

offered. They’d all eaten his food once. She

reached the antenna, wrench in hand. The ghost

stood beside her — not as a man, but as a shadow

shaped like a wok, steam rising from its edges.

He didn’t beg. He didn’t curse. He just held out

a second plate. Fried rice. With chicken. Her

mother’s favourite.

She swung the wrench.

The tower cracked. The jammer died. A thousand

radios across the estate crackled to life at

once — not with static, but with voices. Old

women calling children home. Men humming

keronchong tunes. A chorus of the dead, finally

heard.

The next morning, the promotion list was

rewritten. Her name was at the top. No

explanation given. The ghost’s stall was gone.

The seventh floor was sealed. But every night,

someone leaves a plate of char kway teow at the

stairwell landing. And every morning, the plate

is clean.

Mei Lin now wears officer stripes. She never

eats street food. But she still checks the

seventh floor before roll call. Just to make

sure.