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Singapore was on tenterhooks.
Tension between local communities–the Chinese and the Malay in particular–had bubbled over.
One spark.
A city in flames.
Street clashes. Over-filled buses turned into flashpoints.
Shops shuttered.
Lots of children–not in school.
A silence, not of peace–but in pause.
Names faded into silence.
Never to be said aloud–
again.
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Each apartment block mirrored the other.
Tall. Boxy. Decked in red, white and yellow.
Singapore’s colours.
Colours of Pride
Familiar, but too similar.
The cookie-cutter architecture wasn’t helping Detective Boon do his job.
He stretched and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day–one that hadn’t borne much fruit.
Number 7 wasn’t supposed to be occupied. But someone–or something–was charging the night sky with sparks loud enough to rattle dead souls awake.
The only thing louder than the offending firecrackers?
Taro, the CID’s canine detective sleuth.
The stoic Boon knocked on the door of the only remaining tenant in the complex, Madam Pang.
“Hi Aunty, Wo ke yi wen yi xie wen ti ma? Shi guan yu pao de shen ying. ( Would you mind if I asked a few questions? It’s about the firecrackers being set off in this complex.)”
She eyed Boon up and down, finally eyeing him squarely.
“Wo bu tai ching chu. Zhi zhi dao you ke chuan di ku de nan hai si zhou pao.”(I don’t know much, but saw z barefoot boy , in shorts, running about like it was the apocalypse).”
She eyed him with quiet disdain.
“Ta pao shi ying wei mei ren ting.” (He runs because no one hears).
A sharp bark.
Boon snapped his head around.
Taro poked his nose around a crumbling stairwell. The German Shepherd continued his forage, finally bringing to Boon a rusty harmonica, a burnt schoolbag, and a flyer.
Urging resistance.
Then, a strange scent of sulphur and jasmine.
A little Chinatown history, roused by the sound of firecrackers.
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Then, Taro stopped sniffing. He sat, ears perked.
Still.
Alert.
Boon crouched beside him.
“What do you see, boy?”
The air beneath the stairwell thickened.
Warmed up.
The scent of sulphur and jasmine filled the space, teasing his nostrils. It lingered, curling into his throat.
Then–
A distant tap.
Repeating.
The lights flickered–but too steadily for a gust. Too coincidental.
Boon’s mind slipped to his history lessons—the race riots in Singapore in 1964.
School closures.
The names no one wants to say.
“Ta pao shi mei ren ting…”
The old woman’s words were a haunting echo.
Taro growled, not at the stairwell, but at the corridor below.
Nose lowered.
Tail stiff.
Then, the raw note of a harmonica.
Slightly off-key.
Just once.
Then, silence.
Then, a faint trail of fireworks.
But they didn’t explode.
They imploded–
In light.
The estate clock ticked.
Louder.
Taro walked to the void deck and stood, alert.
Boon followed.
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The long hand of the clock shifted.
So did the air.
7:47 p.m.
The gentle pounding of bare feet.
The boy.
No shoes.
In his hands was a package–Boon couldn’t tell what it was.
Then, explosions.
He guessed.
The boy ran through Boon, unseeing.
A tragic memory, unwilling to fade.
Boon didn’t say a word. He raised his hand, but didn’t stop the ghostly drift.
He raised it to his head–in a salute.
The boy reappeared, giving Boon a quick glance.
And a smile.
He vanished.
No sound.
Like light into the night.
Boon covered his eyes with his hands, slightly stunned.
His harmonica lay at Boon’s feet. No longer rusty, but whole;
Taro whines once.
Plaintive,
Then sits, paw raised.
The clock ticked, it’s time—synced.
Later, in Singapore’s National Archives, Boon found his name.
Tan Teck Huat.
Killed on July 21st, 1964.
He never got to celebrate Singapore’s National Day.
But the sound of his firecrackers remained–blended.
Taro lay beside Boon, head between his paws.
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