We mark an unusual day today-it’s International Fairy Day.
Yes, fairies. Some have poor relationships with humans. Others don’t.
Most value reciprocity.
Some kindnesses deserve more than thanks. They deserve remembering.
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No one in the village of Kampung Tidak (Cannot Village)could miss the rainforest’s largest tree. It stood, taller than the others in its clump.
Enormous.
Gargantuan.
It meant something else to elderly widow, Mrs. Wong.
Mrs. Wong was a misanthrope.She wasn’t too fond of people.
And she had habits that were–
Particular.
The giant milk saucer was one.
Without fail, she would leave one beneath the humongous banyan.
The villagers, tickled by the peculiar habit, gave it a nickname.
The saucer became the Fairy Supper.
Mrs. Tan merely snorted. “Some kindnesses should be remembered.”
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Monsoons flooded village. The changing weather echoed the lives of the villagers.
Nothing was ever constant.
Wet lashings continued. Dry winds howled.
No one was certain what the next day’s weather would be.
But Mrs. Wong was. She placed a saucer under the old Banyan, never missing a day.
Then, the inevitable. She passed.
In the course of her funeral, the saucer remained under the tree.
It stayed, waiting to be remembered.
And those who strained their ears would hear a soft cry:
“Tidak lupa (cannot forget).”
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Then, mysterious footprints started appearing across Tidak.
Tiny. Childlike.
Flower pots on balconies were turned over, the victims of an inexplicable celestial hurricane. Laundry hung across the side of one of Uncle Lim’s prized goats. Some were strewn across the Banyan’s branches, arranged in perfect blends of multicolour. The poor fellow tilted his head to the side, nonplussed.
Acorns appeared on windowsills.
On the windows of a single household:
MILK.
The acorns appeared to round newly-formed mouths in invisible whispers.
Panic washed over the village faster than a tidal wave.
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Panic, regardless, old Mrs Wong’s belongings still required sorting.
They gathered in her house to go through her cupboards and drawers.
And promptly came across one of her old journals.
She had apparently been lost in the rainforest surrounding the village as a child.
Lost and tearful, she took comfort in the shade of the humongous banyan Tree’s leaves.
In the midst of helpless sobs, a tiny voice.
“Do you need help?”
In front of her was a small, winged lady in a sarong kebaya.
Very much a miniature of a Singapore Airlines flight stewardess.
Little Mrs Wong stopped crying out of sheer surprise.
The little creature didn’t flinch.
“Ok. What do you need?”
“To go home, of course!” Little Mrs. Wong sounded almost exasperated.
“Get moving, then. Do you want us to carry you?” the little rainforest fairy didn’t blink an eye.”
“Who…us?” the little girl shot glances all over the clearing.
A bevy of winged little ladies in kebayas abruptly appeared.
“Oh.” she realized, her face contorting into a sheepish grin despite her tears.
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“How can I ever repay you?” Little Mrs. Wong pressed. After all, nothing in life (or the afterlife) was free.
“Susu(Milk)! Kami mahu susu!(We want milk)! Kami mahu susu!!” the tiny ladies chorused.
So to Mrs Wong’s home they went. And from then on, she dutifully placed the saucer under the tree.
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Uncle Lim of the draped goat also served as the village chieftain. He put the journal back in its drawer and exchanged glances with the rest.
“Should we?” He queried.
The rest nodded. There was no question.
Henceforth, they put old Mrs. Wong’s saucer habit on record and observed it. Just as dutifully.
The tiny footprints? Gone.
Besides the saucer, a little wildflower, with the words “Susu baik!Semua minum (The milk is great, Let’s all drink)!”
🧚♀️🥛🧚♀️🥛🧚♀️🥛🧚♀️🥛🧚♀️
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.
