The air in Block 14, Tampines, hung thick with

the smell of roasting satay from the hawker

centre below and the faint sourness of damp

concrete. Mei Ling, newly sworn into National

Service, moved through her new HDB unit like a

ghost herself—her uniform still crisp, her ID

card clipped to her belt, her feet unsure on the

linoleum. The flat was small: one bedroom, a

kitchenette, a bathroom with a cracked mirror.

She’d been assigned here as part of the housing

swap for active NS personnel during the dry

season deployment shift.

On the third night, she found the exam paper

tucked behind a loose ceiling tile. Not a

textbook. Not a note. A full set of answers—

typed, stamped with a red “PASS” seal, and dated

1965. Her breath hitched. The year before

independence. The year the British left. The

year the old kampong spirit died.

She didn’t believe in ghosts. But the flat did.

That night, the fan spun without power. The

fridge hummed a tune no appliance should know—

“Majulah Singapura,” but warped, slowed, offkey.

She opened the cupboard. Inside, a school bag.

Her own bag. But hers had been lost during

Operation Divergence. This one bore a name tag:

Chen Wei, Primary 6, St. Joseph’s School.

She dropped it. It landed with a thud—but no

echo. The walls absorbed sound.

Next morning, the neighbour across the corridor,

Mrs. Lim, stopped her at the lift lobby. “You’re

not supposed to be here,” she said, voice low.

“This block only houses people who passed their

final test.” Mei Ling blinked. “What test?” Mrs.

Lim looked past her, eyes hollow. “The one you

failed last time.”

She returned to her flat. On the table, the exam

paper had changed. Now it read: Failure =

Eviction.

The rule bit hard when she tried to report it.

The NS command refused to respond. No records.

No forms. No names. When she called the Housing

Board, they disconnected her midsentence.

She slept with the light on.

At dawn, she walked to the rooftop. The wind

carried whispers—not words, but feelings: shame,

regret, the taste of cold mutton rice from a

stall that closed in ’72. Then, a shape emerged

from the shadow of the water tank—a boy in a

faded school uniform, holding a crumpled test

paper. He looked at her. And smiled.

She ran down the stairs. The doors locked behind

her. The key turned by itself.

By noon, she stood in the hawker centre, eating

a bowl of laksa. The vendor handed her a receipt.

It read: Passed. Next life: Class 3.

Mei Ling laughed. Hard. Then stopped.

She hadn’t told anyone. But the flat remembered.

And now, so did she.