The flat on Block 437, Tampines, still smelled

of old kopi and dried fish—thirdhand, 1968 build,

no lift, no aircon, but it was hers. Not gifted.

Not loaned. Bought with her Singapore government

scholarship bonus, the only money she could

touch without her sponsor’s signature. She

didn’t know the last tenant died midsweep, broom

still in hand, eyes open to the ceiling fan that

never stopped spinning.

On night three, the lights flickered when she

lit her kerosene lamp. Not power cut—no one else

in the block had power that night. The

floorboards groaned where no one stepped. She

woke to the sound of a mop dragging through her

kitchen, the same rhythm every night at 2.17am.

She didn’t scream. She cooked nasi lemak and

left it on the table.

The rules were clear: no one in the estate

talked about the dead tenant. Not even the

auntie who sold her the keys. “He was quiet,”

she said. “Always swept. Always gave children

lollipops. Never asked for rent.” The ghost

didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Only swept.

Always in the same corner—where the wall cracked

like a broken tooth.

She found his diary under the floorboard, pages

brittle with salt air and tea stains. Not in

English. Not in Malay. In Jawi. A man who worked

at the old Singapore Naval Base, married to a

Tamil nurse, buried his love letters to her

after she vanished during the ’64 riots. He

never told anyone. Never moved on. Just swept.

Waiting for someone to find them.

She didn’t report it. Didn’t call the police.

Didn’t tell her sponsor. Instead, she copied the

letters in her own handwriting, ink smudged from

sweat and tears, and placed them in a tin beside

his broom. At dawn, she lit three joss sticks—

the Chinese way, the Malay way, the Indian way—

and whispered, “I’m here.”

The next night, the mop stopped at 2.17am. The

fan spun silent. The air smelled like jasmine

and roasted peanuts.

In the morning, the flat was warm. The kitchen

floor gleamed. A single lollipop—red, the old

kind with the paper twist—sat on her pillow.

She didn’t move out.

She applied for her secondyear scholarship

extension.

She started teaching Mandarin to the Malay boys

downstairs.

And every night, she swept the floor—three

strokes left, three strokes right—just like he

did.

The ghost never came back.

But the flat? It stopped creaking.

And for the first time since she left Jakarta?

She felt like she belonged.