One day, long after they were gone,
cleaning out a cabinet in my grandparents' house,
buried
...
[+]
Except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the flat was silent. Siti was sitting near the window with the tablet lighting up dimly on her lap and her hand resting on the walker. Her fingers shook as her mind was reeling with how her plans would falter before they could be put into action.
The link between her body and mind has been broken by the traumatic brain injury. Her mobility had returned after months of physiotherapy, but walking still needed the intense concentration, like a baby learning every step.
Before the fall, Siti's life could be described as a bed of roses. She was a senior operations officer in finance, handling meetings with poise and responding to emails in minutes. Her weekends were filled with short travels and café talk, and her decent pay allowed her to occasionally treat her parents to fine places.
Then everything changed because of the accident. Her company quietly replaced while she lay in the hospital. Medical costs wiped out savings. They had to sell their four-room flat in Tiong Bahru and move to a two-room flat in Singapore's far west, which was smaller, cheaper and denser.
Her parents were doing their best. Her mother took a job as a dishwasher; her father swept MRT platforms at night. They returned home long past midnight, too exhausted even to exchange words. The silence in the apartment thickened, heavy as humidity. Some nights, only the fan moved. Their new life felt both too empty and too crowded. They had once lived easy—now they counted every cent, every sigh.
To ease the rent, they partitioned a corner of the living room and rented it out. That was how Jonah came. At first, he was the perfect tenant—polite, clean, and softly spoken. He offered to help with groceries, took out the trash, and even reminded Siti's parents about her medical appointments.
Over time, he slipped deeper into their trust. He paid on time, bought kopi (coffee) for her parents, and helped with chores whenever he could. He also had a measured, respectful answer for everything. To social workers and neighbours, he was goodness itself—the young man who selflessly assisted the disabled tenant.
Behind closed doors, he was something else entirely.
It started subtly: a hand lingering on her shoulder, a grip held too long when he helped her stand. Then came the sharp pinches, the slaps, and the whispered threats when she tried to pull away. He always struck where bruises would be concealed, always left before her parents returned. Once, she tried to tell them, typing slowly into her tablet: "He hurt me." Her mother sighed. "Aiyo, maybe you misinterpreted him. He's a good boy. He might feel sad if he hears you speaking of him like this."
A cold dread took root in Siti's chest. She determined silence was safer than the disbelief she faced, choosing to be smaller rather than unheard.
Her parents' unwavering faith in Jonah became an insurmountable wall, making her own voice feel invisible.
She realized this was his victory: he had convinced the world. Her stuttered words, halting hands, and silence all became proof against her. In plain sight, Jonah was the perfect kid in the block. To the neighbours, Jonah was patient. To her parents, reliable. To the world, he was believable.
All that remained for Siti was endurance.
Tonight, the air was unusually heavy, sticking to her skin. She rose shakily, every muscle trembling. The walker squeaked faintly over the tiles. Her parents were away. The TV made a low mumble in the dark. Jonah had gone downstairs to buy dinner. It wasn't much time—but time had never been her friend, and she wouldn't let this window slip away.
The corridor outside was lit by dim fluorescent lamps. The dull blue paint on the walls peeled, stained by years of rain. Most doors were shut—some neighbours were away, others pretending not to hear. Her feet shuffled softly against the cement as she steered her walker forward, one hand clamped to the frame. The lift was still broken. She turned toward the stairwell. Each step down was a physical fight.
As she hobbled towards the second floor, she heard her old boss's voice echo in her mind: Don't freeze when it's time, Siti. Time is everything.
All in, she silently murmured, her breath ragged.
At the void deck, the night smelled of damp concrete and old satay sticks. Puddles shimmered under weak fluorescent light. The estate was hushed; only the faint whoosh of the train in the distance broke the stillness. Across the road, Block 154 rose pale against the dark sky. A faint yellow glow spilled from one window—Mrs. Lee's.
Mrs. Lee, who used a wheelchair herself, had always spoken to her kindly, without pity. She ran a small women's support group from her flat, helping those trapped in quiet suffering. After one medical review, she had told Siti gently, "If you ever need someone, come find me, ah?"
Siti pressed forward, each movement carving a slice of pain through her hip.
Halfway across the void deck—footsteps.
"Where are you going?"
Jonah's voice. Calm. Too calm.
She froze.
He walked into the light, a takeaway bag swinging gently from his hand, a thin trail of curry dripping from the plastic. His tone was casual, too easy. "You'll fall again if you keep this up," he hushed softly. "Let me help you."
Her fingers fumbled over the tablet. "Stop." The robotic voice was shaky, synthetic. He did not stop.
Mrs. Lee's door swung open. It was fortunate that Mrs. Lee stayed in the first floor. Her voice cut through the heavy air. "Siti? Are you okay?"
Jonah's smile widened. "She's okay, aunty. She's restless sometimes, likes to go walking."
Mrs. Lee's face hardened. "She came to find me," she asserted. "You move back first."
Siti's fingers danced clumsily over the tablet. "He hurt me. Please."
The mechanical voice crackled, small but sharp, hanging in the air like a shiver.
Jonah flinched. His charming mask slipped, and in that fractured space lived something cold, wild, and devastatingly familiar.
"Oh, aunty," he slyly replied, his voice regaining his usual tone. "Do you think she knows what she's saying? She confuses easily."
Mrs. Lee's voice trembled as she yelled into her phone. "I'll call the police now."
"You can call whoever you want," he smoothly rebuked, "But do you think they'll believe her over me?"
The chill in his voice was worse than any shout.
A siren rose faintly in the distance, before fading again. Jonah's eyes flicked toward the sound, then immediately back to Siti. "See? Nobody's coming."
Siti's chest heaved, her thoughts blurring. Memories flickered: the clock from her old office, the way she'd whisper Follow through till the end before sealing a deal. A mantra now desperately reclaimed.
Mrs. Lee yelled again, her voice breaking. "Yes! Block 154! 01-125! Hurry!"
Jonah took one step closer. Then another. The ground between them seemed to abruptly shrink.
"Stop!" Mrs. Lee shouted.
He did not.
The walker shuddered as Siti pulled it tight against her for balance. Her hand hovered over the tablet, the cracked screen glowing weakly. For a heartbeat, Jonah's reflection swam across it—two faces merging in a single fractured image.
The sirens wailed closer again—but still faint, far and uncertain.
No neighbours came out. No doors opened. The corridor's light flickered weakly over the peeling paint, buzzing in rhythm with the sound of her frantic breathing.
And then—stillness.
Time hung suspended in the thick night air. Three figures caught in the space between motion and silence.
After that, nothing.
No one knew who reached her first.