The air in Block 417 still tastes of fish sauce
and burnt kaya when Li Mei steps in, her
scholarship letter crumpled in her palm. The
flat’s been abandoned since ’63, when Mr. Tan
from 4B vanished after testifying against the
Britishrun opium ring smuggling through Pulau
Ubin. No one says his name. But the lift still
stops at Level 13, even though the button’s
broken. That’s the first rule: ghosts don’t ride
elevators—they wait.
Her mother, Mrs. Li, had packed three rice
cookers, six sets of Olevel notes, and a single
photo of Li Mei at ten, top of the class,
holding a prize she didn’t want. “You carry the
family’s future,” she’d said, then slapped her
for crying. That’s the second rule: tiger
parenting doesn’t ask why. It just moves the
goalposts.
Li Mei sleeps on the floor because the bed’s
cursed. The previous tenant, a NS conscript,
swore he heard his mother calling him from the
toilet at 3am—only to find her dead of a stroke
in Johor. He jumped from Level 13. The wall
still has his fingerprints, faded but there. No
one cleans it. The HDB board says it’s
“structural integrity.” Everyone knows it’s the
ghost.
Every night, Mrs. Li calls from Bukit Timah. Not
to check if her daughter’s eating. Not to ask if
she’s sleeping. She asks: “Did you beat Chen Mei
Ling’s score again?” Li Mei hasn’t slept in four
days. Her eyes burn. She’s rewriting the entire
chemistry syllabus on the wall with charcoal,
because the ink ran out. The ghost watches.
Doesn’t speak. Just hums “Kuala Lumpur” in Malay.
On the fifth night, the lift whirs up to 13. The
door opens. A figure stands there—wearing a
1950s British colonial uniform, one arm missing,
face stitched with thread. It holds a sheaf of
documents. The testimony. The one that got Mr.
Tan killed. The one Li Mei’s father gave to MI5
in ’65. The one Mrs. Li never knew about.
The ghost drops the papers. They land on Li
Mei’s notes. The ghost points to the ceiling.
Then it points to the rice cooker. Then it walks
out.
Li Mei picks up the papers. Her father’s
signature. The names of five dead British
officers. The date: the day she was born.
The next morning, Mrs. Li arrives with a tiffin
box of chicken rice and a new scholarship
application for Cambridge. “You must win this,”
she says. “Or we go back to the kampong.”
Li Mei doesn’t cry. She takes the tiffin. Eats
half. Puts the rest in the fridge. Then she
picks up a pen.
Writes on the wall beside the ghost’s
fingerprint:
“MAMA, I GOT THE SCHOLARSHIP.
I ALSO SAW THE GHOST.
IT WAS YOUR HUSBAND.”
The lift stops at 13 again that night.
This time, it doesn’t open.
But the hum changes.
Now it’s singing “Mamma Mia.”
The next day, Mrs. Li calls.
“Why are you laughing?”
Li Mei doesn’t answer.
She’s already packing.
The ghost left a key.
It opens the cupboard.
Inside: five decades of scholarship certificates.
All signed by the same man.
All addressed to “My Daughter, The One Who
Survived.”
