The HDB flat reeks of old rice and mildew. She
steps over the threshold, heels clicking on
linoleum, and the air tightens around her. The
walls are thin. The neighbours listen. Her
mother’s voice echoes from the kitchen, sharp as
a blade. You come back for what?
The flat is smaller than she remembers. The
ceiling sags. A single fan whirs. She unpacks
her suitcase—Western clothes, Western books,
Western dreams. Her mother slams the fridge door.
No more foreign nonsense.
At the hawker centre, she orders char kway teow.
The vendor eyes her accent, the way she speaks.
You not from here? She says nothing. The food is
too salty. The broth tastes like regret.
Her father’s photo hangs crooked on the wall. He
died in 1965, during the riots. Her mother never
lets her touch it. He was a good man. You must
be better.
She applies for a job at a bank. The interview
is polite, but the manager lingers on her accent.
We need locals. She leaves with a rejection
letter. The streets feel heavier. The sky darker.
At night, the ghost appears. Not in the mirror,
but in the silence between heartbeats. It wears
her old school uniform. It whispers in Mandarin.
You forgot me.
She starts attending NS lectures. The drill is
brutal. The sergeants shout. She learns to march,
to salute, to forget. But the ghost follows. It
sits in the mess hall, watching her eat.
Her mother forces her into a matchmaker’s circle.
A Malay engineer, a Tamil lawyer, a Chinese
accountant. They all ask the same question: What
do you do? She says nothing. The ghost laughs.
The flat floods. Water seeps through the
floorboards. Her mother screams. The ghost
stands in the middle of it, smiling. You always
had a soft heart.
She writes a letter to her father. It’s never
sent. The ghost takes it. The next morning, her
mother is gone. The flat is empty. Only the
ghost remains.
She walks to the beach. The sea is calm. The
ghost sits on the sand, staring at the horizon.
You are free now.
She doesn’t know if it’s a goodbye or an
invitation. The tide rises. She steps into the
water. The ghost disappears. The world feels
lighter.
The HDB flat is sold. The ghost is never seen
again. But the fan still whirs. The walls still
listen.
