The tablet cracked when MeiLin dropped it on the

kitchen tiles—same spot where her mother once

smashed a calculator for a 78% in Maths. The

ancestral tablet, carved with her

greatgrandfather’s name in faded red ink, was

supposed to bless her OLevel prep. Instead, it

was another leash. That night, she burned it in

the HDB rubbish chute, whispering to the smoke:

Enough.

By dawn, her results page on the Ministry’s

noticeboard showed blank. No subject. No grade.

Just a single red stamp: Banned by Ancestral Law.

The school principal called her into his office,

silent, and slid a printed form—her name circled,

crossed out in charcoal. No appeal. No

explanation.

That evening, the stairwell light flickered on

the 14th floor. She saw him: a man in a frayed

1950s kapoksack shirt, barefoot, holding a

wooden abacus. His eyes were hollow. He didn’t

speak. He just pointed at her feet.

She checked her shoes. One sole was covered in

fresh, wet earth.

The next morning, her mother’s voice cracked

through the door: “You think burning him erases

what he gave us? He brought this flat. He got

your grandfather into the Civil Service. He held

the family together when the Japanese took the

rice.”

MeiLin didn’t answer. She knew the rule: no one

touches an ancestor’s tablet after the 1962 HDB

resettlement decree. If you break it, the spirit

doesn’t haunt you—it reclaims your lineage’s

earned progress.

She went to the void deck at midnight. He was

there, counting rice grains on the concrete. She

knelt. Placed her exam result slip—printed from

the school’s backup copy—on the ground.

He picked it up. Nodded. Then he took her hand.

At 3:14 a.m., the HDB block’s power surged. All

48 units lit up. Her name reappeared on the

board—A1 in English, A2 in Maths.

The next day, her mother wept in the kitchen,

stirring bak kut teh. “He’s gone,” she said.

“But you got the grades.”

MeiLin didn’t smile.

She found the abacus on her pillow.

And in the corner of the 14thfloor stairwell,

fresh earth still clung to the wall.

The rule bit again: you don’t erase ancestors.

You only learn to carry them.