For those who read The Boy Who Stored Goodbyes in a Box, you’ll remember Boon, the Little Boy who tucked away goodbyes and memories in a box like treasures.
He’s now grown into Detective Boon –a sensitive, empathetic sleuth who doesn’t flinch from a little grit.
This story does deal with a few gritty issues –not too much, but enough to matter.
The lost-and-found corner in Khaji Primary School reeked of deliberately forgotten odours- discarded, unwashed lunchboxes; soiled, smelly tees; textbooks climbing to the ceiling with success
But the room wasn’t all foul odour and disappointment. Miss Lina, the school’s custodian, had placed a Kindness Box where children could leave encouragement and thank you notes.
But kindness kept going…missing.
Notes mysteriously vanished, day by day.
“Chum ah(Oh dear in Hokkien),” a flustered Miss Lina nearly turned upside down herself in her search.
The last straw was a note that read “You matter”.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
It clinked.
The musical sound.
Of glass.
“A boy named Boon…stored goodbyes in a box…”
Detective Boon strapped on a pair of forensic gloves, combing the trash like treasure.
The little glass box of goodbyes was married to him –he carried it everywhere in his knapsack.
Khaji Primary still smelled the same –like over ripe banana–as it did years earlier.
The missing notes of kindness were sticky notes that would not detach.
He noticed a peculiar piece of paper, its edges torn.
“You mat…” The rest was jagged scrap.
That nettled Boon…like the missing goodbyes that vanished with those who meant.
“Jia lat…(Terrible) who would stick a knife like that?”
That torn note was the last straw for the Singaporean gumshoe.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
Boon’s mind flooded with notes from his Goodbye Box–small. large. tattered. torn.
He felt each at the tips of his forensic-gloved fingers.
But this stood out.
“You matter.”
Compassion bordered in gold, in bubbled handwriting.
It was for her.
The flower by the classroom isle.
The punches.
The crying.
The catcalls.
“Chio Bu (pretty girl in Hokkien).
The video –1000 views within five minutes of its release.
That note was NOT written in erasable ink.
It mattered.
And he had to find it.
A trail of torn paper Boon noticed at the corner of his eye gave him a start.
He followed it to the school’s storeroom.
Where he found the missing pieces and letters of the note scattered on the floor.
The room’s occupant –Ah Tan.
The school’s janitor.
Boon didn’t confront him –directly.
He waited.
School had to be over.
He sat in Tan’s chair, swivelling it until the janitor appeared.
He didn’t speak to the man. There was a simple note on the table.
“You can’t tear what she needed others to hear.”
Ah Tan unfolded it. The old man unfolded it, hands trembling.
He looked frail. More than boon remembered.
“Boon…I only took the ones I wished you all had written for me. I cleaned for you.”
Boon placed an arm on his shoulder.
Boon returned to Khaji Primary School a few weeks later.
Miss Lina had put out the Kindness Box again. It overflowed with Post-Its.
A smaller glass box sat next to it.
No label.
Inside, parts of a small note, combined with sticky tape.
The “It” had changed.
She mattered.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 