Every dawn before 5am, she sweeps the marble
floor of the Tiong Bahru Temple, dusts the
incense burners, and replaces the faded orchids
at the altar of the Nine Emperor Gods — no one
remembers her name, but all know her as the one
who never misses a day.
She woke three weeks ago with a gash behind her
ear and no recollection of how she got there.
Her mother’s voice still echoes in her head —
“You took the oath, ah? Then you must keep it.
For the family.” — but she can’t recall what
oath.
The temple doesn’t work like other temples. The
oil lamps burn blue at midnight, even when unlit.
The spirit tablets shift position overnight,
arranging themselves into old English script —
“Liberation not yet won.” She doesn’t read
English, but her fingers move to trace the
characters like they remember.
Last Tuesday, the old man from Block 48 came to
offer joss paper. He whispered, “You were the
one who burned the British files in ’47.” She
didn’t answer. She didn’t know what he meant.
But that night, the bronze bell rang — without
wind, without hand.
The rule: anyone who remembers too much must be
erased by the temple. The second rule: if the
volunteer forgets her duty, her youngest sibling
will vanish the next full moon — not dead, not
gone, but unremembered by everyone alive.
She found her sister’s school photo tucked
inside the altar’s false panel. The girl’s face
was scratched out. Only the uniform remained —
St. Joseph’s, 1963.
Last night, she lit three sticks of sandalwood
and asked the gods: Who am I?
The lamps turned white.
The tablet for the late Governor Sir Shenton
Thomas flickered — then burned itself into ash.
In its place, a new name appeared in Malay
script: Puan Siti binti Ahmad.
She did not weep.
She did not scream.
She picked up the broom.
At 4:58am, she swept the same spot for the
seventh time.
Behind her, the temple bell rang once — soft,
satisfied.
Her sister’s face, whole again, appeared in the
steam rising from the morning kopi.
The volunteer did not smile.
She knew now — the temple doesn’t heal amnesia.
It trades it.
For duty.
For family.
And for the quiet, unspoken pact between the
colonised and the spirits who still walk the HDB
voids.
