1973. Rain hammers the corrugated roof of Block

217, Taman Jurong. Madam Lim, widow of a drowned

dockhand, boils kopi in a dented pot while her

son, Wei, stares at his OLevel results pinned to

the fridge with a bent paperclip. He failed

Maths. Again. The HDB clerk said his name was

third on the waiting list for the remedial class

— but only two spots left. Kiasu spirit in her

bones. Not just for him. For the whole block.

Everyone knew the Lim boy was bright — but

bright didn’t feed the family.

She walks past the abandoned well behind Block

217, now sealed with concrete and a rusted sign:

DANGER — DO NOT APPROACH. The well was where the

kampong spirit lived before the Housing Board

came. Old folks still left offerings: a banana,

a coin, a sprig of betel. The well didn’t just

hold water. It held memory. And hunger.

That night, she smears turmeric paste on the

concrete crack, whispers to the dark, and offers

her right hand’s middle finger — the one she

used to pinch rice balls for Wei’s packed lunch.

The spirit doesn’t speak. It takes.

Next morning, Wei wakes up reciting calculus in

his sleep. His textbooks glow faintly at the

margins. His teacher, Mrs. Tan, finds him

solving OLevel questions before the bell rings —

in Chinese, in Malay, in Tamil, all at once. The

boy doesn’t know how. The class whispers. The

principal calls her in.

The hard rule bites: No one who bargains with

the well can leave the estate. Not for good. Not

even to die.

By week’s end, Wei scores top in Maths. First in

the block. The HDB sends a certificate. The

neighbours bring curry puffs. But Madam Lim’s

right hand is gone — not amputated. Erased. No

scar. No stump. Just the sleeve of her blouse,

always buttoned.

At the end of the term, Wei gets into Raffles

Institution. The family celebrates with nasi

lemak under the lamppost. But when Madam Lim

turns to smile, her reflection in the kitchen

window doesn’t blink.

A week later, the HDB paints over the crack.

Three years on, the new tenants hear tapping

inside the wall — rhythmic, like counting. One

says it’s rats. Another says it’s the ghost of a

woman who gave too much for her child.

But the old folks in Block 217 know.

They still leave a banana by the well.

And every year, on the day Wei graduates, the

wall behind the kitchen sink drips — just once —

like a tear.

The kiasu spirit never left.

It just learned to wait.