The wall behind Unit 3B in Block 14, Tiong Bahru
HDB, began bleeding at midnight on the 13th. Not
water. Not paint. A dark seep that smelled of
singed rice and burnt kerosene, oozing through
the cracks like old blood. It was the third time
it happened since she moved in — Lin Mei, 19,
secondyear electronics diploma student, sleeping
on a mattress propped against the only dry patch
of floor.
She had inherited the flat after her
grandmother’s funeral. No will. No papers. Just
a key wrapped in a faded red handkerchief with a
Malay phrase stitched in white: “Kami tak pernah
lupa.” (We never forget.) The landlord said no
one had lived there since ’48. But the building
was new — built in ’75, part of the first wave
of mass resettlement from kampongs. The
government said the land was cleared for
“progress.”
At night, the walls hummed. Not electricity.
Something older. The fan in the corner spun
without power. Once, a photograph slipped from
the fridge — a young woman in a peranakan kebaya,
standing beside a man in a Japanese military
uniform. Lin Mei didn’t know him. She didn’t
know her grandmother had been married before the
Occupation.
Then came the notice: demolition order for Block
14. Six months left. “For urban renewal,” they
said. But the work crew arrived early —
engineers with measuring tapes, camera crews
filming every stairwell. One man, in a grey suit,
stood too long outside her door. He didn’t knock.
Just watched the number plate. Then he vanished.
On the last day before the survey, Lin Mei found
the secret panel behind the kitchen sink — not a
pipe, but a cavity lined with copper wire,
sealed with wax. Inside: a rusted tin box.
Inside the box: three items. A passport stamped
with a prewar Singapore seal. A diary written in
Tamil script. And a locket with two photos — one
of her mother as a child, and another of a man
who looked like her father… but not her father.
The name on the back read: “Salleh bin Rahman –
National Service, 1963.”
She hadn’t known her father died in ’63. Her
mother had said he disappeared during a protest
march near Orchard Road. But the diary confirmed:
he’d been arrested by Internal Security. The
system required silence. For families. For peace.
The rule wasn’t written down — it was enforced
by fear.
That night, the wall bled again. This time, the
seep formed letters. “Don’t speak.”
Lin Mei placed the locket on the windowsill. At
dawn, the glass cracked. Outside, the entire
block stood silent — all lights off. No one
answered when she knocked. Then the maintenance
man appeared. He held a clipboard. He said
nothing. Just pointed at the date stamp on the
demolition notice: “13th.”
She checked the calendar. Today was the 13th.
She sat on the floor. Took out the passport.
Wrote her name on the blank page. Dropped the
locket into the sink. Let it fall through the
pipe.
The wall stopped bleeding.
By noon, the construction crew arrived — but not
for demolition. They were taking down the sign.
Replacing it with one that read: Block 14 –
Heritage Zone. Preservation Pending.
No explanation. No announcement.
Lin Mei packed her bag. Left the flat. Never
returned.
But sometimes, late at night, if you stand too
close to the wall where Unit 3B used to be, you
can hear a faint whisper — not in any language.
Just the sound of a door closing.
