short story
After Siew Lan passed away at 72, her daughter was clearing the flat in Toa Payoh. Everything was as expected. Folded clothes. Labeled containers. Old calendars still marked with medical appointments and birthdays. Then she found the tin. It was tucked behind a stack of recipe books in the kitchen
short story
THE SHIRT YOU CANNOT HIDE In primary school, I belonged to a club I never asked to join. It was called TAF, Trim and Fit. If you spelled it backward, it told the truth no one wanted to say out loud. FAT. We knew what it meant. Everyone did. During
short story
I was a manager. I had a steady job, a decent title, and a life that looked like it was working. And every morning, I stood in front of the mirror and forced myself to smile. My father passed away when I was five. After that, something in me went
short story
My father once called me a “borderline son.” He was not the kind of man who softened his words. He spoke directly, without pause, without apology. To him, discipline was not a concept. It was a way of life. At home, he carried himself like a school discipline master, firm,
short story
I should be dead. At least, that is what it felt like. I lost the two things that mattered most in my life. I lost money. I lost my health. There were moments when I thought I had lost every reason to live. But I am still here. I suffered
short story
My name is Daniel. I am from Barcelona. If you ask my mother, she will tell you I made it. On Sundays, I call home from my balcony in Simei. The MRT runs behind the block every few minutes, a low metallic rush cutting through the humid air. I have
short story
My name is Farid. I live in Johor Bahru, but my days belong to Singapore. Every weekday, my loceng—the alarm—screams at 4:30 a.m. I don’t wake up to the sun; I wake up to the cold reality of the Second Link crossing. By 5:00
short story
My name is Li Wei. I am from a small city in Fujian. When I first came to Singapore, I thought it would feel familiar. Same face, similar language, similar food. I told my mother, 很快就适应了, don't worry. I believed that. I work in a mid-sized restaurant near
short story
The sun in Singapore doesn’t rise; it just switches on like a fluorescent bulb. My name is Sari. Back in my village near Solo, the air smells like damp earth and woodsmoke in the morning. Here, it smells like Clorox and the lavender spray Ma’am likes. The first
short story
My hands smell like antiseptic and hospital soap. They are steady when I clean a wound. Gentle when I hold an elderly patient who is afraid. Careful when I check an IV line at 3am. These hands know how to read a monitor, how to spot when a heartbeat is
short story
On paper, I am doing well. I am a software engineer in Singapore, earning $5,800 a month. Back in Chennai, that number becomes something else when you convert it to rupees. My parents tell people, “He is settled overseas.” My cousins message me asking if I can help with
short story
My name is Rahim. I am 29, from Bangladesh. Every morning, I wake up at 6. The room is already warm. Eight of us sleep inside, on double-decker beds, with just enough space to walk between them. We take turns to wash, to cook, to call home. By 7:30,