Original poem 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.
The sea ignored the WhatsApp message. The trees filed complaints.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
Samy hauled the changkul (long spade in Malay) and wiped his sweat-soaked brow. World Environment Day was not the day to be a dedicated forest ranger;he sweated extra hours. And they didn’t seem to know they were extra.
The Mandai Forest Reserve was still was surrounded by a coastline humans hadn’t decided was a welcome mat. No, the sea hadn’t received the Whatsapp message not to arrive.
No tidal waves. Yet.
It was a still pristine beach with a pretty mangrove skirt.
But the changkul continued digging,with fervour;poor, exhausted Samy hauled it while it grated against the ground in protest.
Dig. Dig.Dig.
On it went with relentless urgency. Until —
There came the sound of metal meeting metal.
A box. Samy pried the stubborn lid open.
A wad of five letters. Each written by a tree filing a complaint.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
The Rain Tree wrote its poignant missive first.
Dear Humans,
I remember cooler days. My branches arched wide and stretched far; children gathered beneath me to relish my shade. They now flee to the mall 30 seconds after standing under me; I can’t compete with free air-conditioning. My circuitry’s too old-fashioned.
The air beneath me is now–different. It has an odor. Stale. The sun hovers over me more persistently now;the birds have all but given up their perches. One crow did a hot-tin-roof dance on a branch. Wacko Jacko would have blushed.
It is way too warm. I was planted to give shade; the sun’s now the better litigator.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
The Mangrove wrote hers next.
Dear Humans,
My vantage point along the coast is jin sui (really beautiful in Hokkien). Where else can we see tides moving further inland each year? Or watch saltwater breaking boundaries and irritating its sandy neighbors? I must say that the escalating heat makes tide watching a worthwhile hobby. Even if it does sweep me of my roots one day.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
The Forest Giant didn’t want to miss out and filed his own complaint.
Dear Humans,
I’m ancient. You know you’re getting old when your neighbors develop liver spots on their barks and go missing on day.
And many of my neighbours have gone missing.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Absences. Not seasons.That wind that blows by? It really annoys me now. Tickles me as it passes through empty spaces.
Sunlight’s now a regular Peeping Tom. It comes in secret and sets its eyes on the lady leaves forming canopies close to the ground.
They shrivel, you know. Skin problems.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
Samy blew away recalcitrant soil and discovered that the Fruit Tree, too, had filed a complaint.
Dear Humans,
Alamak(Oh dear)! Flowers sprouting in the wrong places. Beautifully clumped or too spaced out. I suppose the soil has hormonal imbalance and has developed acne.
Fruits have also ripened at the wrong times. Pisang (banana) are unusually long. I think the seasons are backdated; they should be using GPS, not street directory maps.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
Samy swept a little more soil off the wad of letters.
One by a sapling.
But it wasn’t to the Humans.
Dear Uncles and Aunties,
Why are all of you grumbling so much? Not everyone is so bad. Some of these humans you complain about threw my seed in the soil, you know. Or I would have become a withered leaf lady instead of being here.
Ah, and who’s that chio bu (pretty lady), Greta something? Greta Gunberg(Thunberg, I think.)? She’s annoying the loggers by advocating restored habitats. I wouldn’t mind her as a partner when I grow up.
Uncles and aunties, a lot more must be done. But things aren’t so bad.
Samy put down the changkul and slipped the letters under the sapling.
The little one would have the best chance of getting them read.
By someone.
🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱
Original Short Story for World Environment Day 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.
We mark International Corgi Day. For a little fur ball which stands apart because of its long torso and sense of fun.
The corgi is also known for its short legs and being Queen Elizabeth’s favorite dog breed.
For good reason.
Short legs. Grand ambitions. Every other shenanigan.
🐾👑🐾👑🐾👑🐾👑🐾
Spotted long body
Legs stupendously stunted
Scouring my toes.
Yellowed ball of charming fluff
Ears perked, fun never enough.
🐾🍪🐾🍪🐾🍪🐾🍪🐾
Pointed nose in air
Scouts its turf for all who dare
Barks at those below.
But it runs about in dread
When it loses its biscuit.
👑🐾🍪😱🍪🐾👑
Original Tanka poem 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.
The rain drummed its restless fingers against the library’s glass windows. Detective Marcus tapped his own fingertips on one of the rosewood tables.
He was annoyed…the aroma of the cappucino eluded him. He couldn’t appreciate how fragrant it was…or wasn’t.
Rainwater leaked into its already dark, dank corridors; doors creaked with pain. It seemed that the library remembered the homicide faster than anyone could.
The last thing he needed taking up his much-needed time was an old murder that had come out of the refrigerator.
The trained gumshoe didn’t see it going anywhere. 15 years in refrigeration. The little details would have escaped the student witness faster than Houdini.
Well, he needed Houdini now. As luck would have it, the police department’s psychologist, Dr. Fong, had made a useful suggestion for once.
“Hypnosis. It may stimulate her temporal lobes enough to tell us something.”
So Detective Tan arranged for a session.
As it turned out, some memories did a Houdini-style escape from her mind.
.
A stranger. Just his silhouette. Grabbing someone by the shoulder.
While the witness slept.
Marcus sat up.
☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️
The witness, Marilyn, soon recollected the fatal event. But she sounded too…precise. Lived. Too spot-on for the experienced gumshoe to believe. Too many details she couldn’t have known unless she had been privy to the investigation.
Or–
The crime.
The detailed disclosure sparked his curiosity. So, he answered.
But the few leads her dreams provided were footprints in very dense fog. Each revealed footprint was covered again, unseen.
He came up with more questions than answers.
So, back to the cold case file cataloged among hundreds of others in the departments very muggy archives.
He found the box he needed. Finally.
And that Marilyn hadn’t been the only one whose dreams the stranger had visited.
Others had. In fact, they were a recurring pattern that stretched back decades.
The victim, it seemed, wouldn’t stay silent. His photograph stared purposefully at him from the page.
Marilyn, and others, were his conduits.
☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️
Marcus had to know. So Marilyn dreamwalked a few more times for Dr. Fong, unwilling though she was.
The final session saw her shoot straight up from her chair, pale-faced.
“I saw him,” She gripped the edge of her chair. “I saw him!!!”
Marcus held her hand, concerned. Her voice took on fresh urgency.
“The stranger’s not your killer…he wants to tell you who it was…because….’
Dr. Fong and Marcus glanced at each other.
And realised.
☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️
A little dreamwalk cajoling and Henry Lee, th stranger-victim, came up with a tale of two rivals.
Love rivals. Marcus shook his head.
Same old, same old.
He and another student, Bob Lim, had an interest in common–
Marilyn.
And love hath no fury like a hotblooded youth scorned.
Marilyn and Bob had been dating–they had their own shared interests.
Enter Bob and a very jagged-edged kitchen knife.
And Henry? The main course.
“How did you know it was Henry? He never showed his face to you…until…” Marcus arched his eyebrows.
Marilyn pursed her lips. “There was a smell…..”
Marcus smiled wanly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to describe that in more detail…not much for smells
since an accident decided to make things difficult for my nose.”
So she did.
Bob was arrested and summarily charged.
A few days later, Marcus sat with the same box in front of him, with a marker.
He sealed the lid and it closed, satisfied.
Closed, in black marker.
Marcus’ marker.
A photograph of Henry had been in the box. Marcus had placed it on his desk.
A small tribute.
And Henry’s smile widened.
☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️
Original mystery 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.
The month of June is associated with Juno, the Roman Goddess of marriage and fertility. People turned to her for blessings in marriages and childbirth.
🤍────────🤍
Moonlight
June’s life in lace.
Movement in still silence.
In the mirror, a face borrowed.
And veiled.
🤍────────🤍
Black brides.
Their voices faint.
“Save June. Save June.” They call.
Soft, wilted roses of promise.
Pale hands.
🤍────────🤍
Their stories.
Gold rings.
On chained hands.
The wedding gold glittered.
Promises, now an iron lock-
Bolted.
🤍────────🤍
So June
Pulls the gold ring.
Off her unchained finger.
Slim, svelte finger, now crooks.
Then light.
🤍────────🤍
Sunrise.
Darkness, then light.
Dawn undid the night’s knots.
In the mirror, a single face.
Of hope.
Unchained.
🤍────────🤍
Original poem 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.
This International Children’s Day, Detective Marcus Tan reflects on an accident that took away an important sense when he was twelve. It had a bearing on his work. Did it? We rely on what we have left.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The first responder, as luck would have it, thought Detective Marcus Tan.
The dark warehouse was devoid of light, save for a lone ray of sun light that leaked through the boarded windows. It stood stoically silent; it had been abandoned for years.
The facility was decrepit; moss crawled up the walls. An odor of must punctured the otherwise stale air.
Witnesses and the investigative team wrinkled their noses; an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong. As Marcus trained his eagle eyes on the unwilling crowd that found themselves victims of crime, a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist.
” Could you describe the smell?” Detective Tan shot a question that caught the attention of the forensic specialists around him. Several looked up with an eyebrow raised. Didn’t he have his own words for it?
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
Work was ongoing. Marcus and the investigative team couldn’t process the warehouse in a single sitting; the murder had been brutal. Graphic, with the requisite evidence lost or, as any detective would hope, left to capture. He returned to complete the work the next day
He was alone– the rest of the team had their weekend obligations. That made things a little —
Difficult.
A faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows, wafting through the corridors and charred doorways. This was a death by arson–no doubt. The only question he had was–
By whose hand?
The gray ribbon would tell him that. Specifically, its smell.
There was something about its odor. Or nothing.
He couldn’t smell it. An accident he had as a kid had robbed him of that sense. He needed the team’s help for that, though he never told them.
So, he watched.
More carefully than anyone would. While the forensic team was guided by its odor, he was guided by its movement.
So he analyzed it.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The smoke always ended behind a wall of rock -solid concrete.
Marcus ordered a canine search. The cadaver canine unit started its work immediately.
It wasn’t long before one of the dogs sat directly in front of a suspicious brick.
Marcus tugged at it.
Soon, a humongous hole and a set of Excel sheets. The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.
Further digging.
The evidence surfaced.
Human remains.
Further investigation revealed fraud and an attempt by unscrupulous company managers to hide it.
By hiding the accountant himself.
Behind 5 ft of concrete.
But he hadn’t remained behind the wall.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The discovery made headlines in the Singapore Times.
Everyone reeled in their comfortable armchairs. The company was renowned for its squeaky-clean advertisements and image.
Everyone came to the foregone conclusion.
A dissatisfied employee seeking more renumeration.
He discovers the fraud and asks for more.
The managers, compelled to give and desperate, seal him, live, behind the wall.
But Marcus wasn’t convinced.
Then his eyes fell on something a little–
Out of place.
The fraudulent transfers on the spreadsheet started before the managers made any transfers themselves.
Marcus flipped quickly through the stack of papers before him.
Emails.
Approval chains.
Bank records
And every transfer was made by the–
Accountant.
His fingerprints were on every sheet of paper.
He hadn’t blown the whistle.
He had created it.
And solicited the help of his bosses.
The truth had undone him
One that he had created.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
Marcus secured a warrant for the managers’ arrest. The warehouse was scheduled for demolition for the following month.
He returned a final time and stood behind the broken wall.
At the place where an accountant, a fraudster and a victim were the same man.
The truth had surfaced.
The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
Language for Effect Questions
Question 1
The writer describes the scent as:
“an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong.”
What effect does the comparison to a “too-tight sarong” create? Support your answer with details from the phrase.
Question 2
The writer describes the smoke as:
“a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist.”
How does the phrase “beckoning the gumshoe” contribute to the mysterious atmosphere of the passage?
Question 3
The writer states:
“moss crawled up the walls.”
What does the word “crawled” suggest about the condition of the warehouse?
Question 4
The writer describes the warehouse as:
“stoically silent.”
How does this description affect the reader’s impression of the setting?
Question 5
The writer writes:
“The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.”
What effect does the word “surrendered” have on the reader’s understanding of the discovery?
Question 6
The writer states:
“The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.”
What does the image of truth “billowing through the bricks” suggest about the nature of truth?
Question 7
The writer describes the smoke as:
“a faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows.”
How do the words “faint”, “gray”, and “crept” contribute to the mood of the passage?
Question 8
The writer says:
“He hadn’t blown the whistle. He had created it.”
How does the short sentence structure emphasise the twist in the story?
Harder Evaluation Question (Text 3 Style)
The writer repeatedly uses images of smoke throughout the story.
Explain how the image of smoke develops the theme of truth in the passage. Support your answer with evidence from different parts of the text.
Michelle Liew used to teach English in Singapore’s MOE system. These days, she works online with students who need structure, clarity, and language.
For enquiries about online English lessons, feel free to send her a WhatsApp message
This International Children’s Day, Detective Marcus Tan reflects on an accident that took away an important sense when he was twelve. It had a bearing on his work. Did it? We rely on what we have left.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The first responder, as luck would have it, thought Detective Marcus Tan.
The dark warehouse was devoid of light, save for a lone ray of sun light that leaked through the boarded windows. It stood stoically silent; it had been abandoned for years.
The facility was decrepit; moss crawled up the walls. An odor of must punctured the otherwise stale air.
Witnesses and the investigative team wrinkled their noses; an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong. As Marcus trained his eagle eyes on the unwilling crowd that found themselves victims of crime, a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist.
” Could you describe the smell?” Detective Tan shot a question that caught the attention of the forensic specialists around him. Several looked up with an eyebrow raised. Didn’t he have his own words for it?
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
Work was ongoing. Marcus and the investigative team couldn’t process the warehouse in a single sitting; the murder had been brutal. Graphic, with the requisite evidence lost or, as any detective would hope, left to capture. He returned to complete the work the next day
He was alone– the rest of the team had their weekend obligations. That made things a little —
Difficult.
A faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows, wafting through the corridors and charred doorways. This was a death by arson–no doubt. The only question he had was–
By whose hand?
The gray ribbon would tell him that. Specifically, its smell.
There was something about its odor. Or nothing.
He couldn’t smell it. An accident he had as a kid had robbed him of that sense. He needed the team’s help for that, though he never told them.
So, he watched.
More carefully than anyone would. While the forensic team was guided by its odor, he was guided by its movement.
So he analyzed it.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The smoke always ended behind a wall of rock -solid concrete.
Marcus ordered a canine search. The cadaver canine unit started its work immediately.
It wasn’t long before one of the dogs sat directly in front of a suspicious brick.
Marcus tugged at it.
Soon, a humongous hole and a set of Excel sheets. The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.
Further digging.
The evidence surfaced.
Human remains.
Further investigation revealed fraud and an attempt by unscrupulous company managers to hide it.
By hiding the accountant himself.
Behind 5 ft of concrete.
But he hadn’t remained behind the wall.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
The discovery made headlines in the Singapore Times.
Everyone reeled in their comfortable armchairs. The company was renowned for its squeaky-clean advertisements and image.
Everyone came to the foregone conclusion.
A dissatisfied employee seeking more renumeration.
He discovers the fraud and asks for more.
The managers, compelled to give and desperate, seal him, live, behind the wall.
But Marcus wasn’t convinced.
Then his eyes fell on something a little–
Out of place.
The fraudulent transfers on the spreadsheet started before the managers made any transfers themselves.
Marcus flipped quickly through the stack of papers before him.
Emails.
Approval chains.
Bank records
And every transfer was made by the–
Accountant.
His fingerprints were on every sheet of paper.
He hadn’t blown the whistle.
He had created it.
And solicited the help of his bosses.
The truth had undone him
One that he had created.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
Marcus secured a warrant for the managers’ arrest. The warehouse was scheduled for demolition for the following month.
He returned a final time and stood behind the broken wall.
At the place where an accountant, a fraudster and a victim were the same man.
The truth had surfaced.
The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.
🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀
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.
I wait to keep his book, tapping my feet in quick time
Then see his fingers tremble gently underneath the yellowed pages of a frayed book.
💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜
She
Stands
Head of
The long line
Reaches for her purse
With her fingers grasping in vain.
The feet of the others in the line click, start to shift,
She turns with a cane in one hand and a pair of hands that feel the air she breathes with all.
💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜
Original Fibonacci poems for World MS Day 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.
The smell of Marigold butter wafted under the nostrils of anyone who passed Auntie Tan’s apartment every Thursday evening, before a storm made an appearance. Thunder resounded, as if heavy furniture was being dragged through her estate. Yet there would be 12 biscuits, rising with beautiful ease from their baking moulds. Except one. It gripped, a persistent thought refusing to leave.
🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪
Auntie Tan tried vainly to get rid of the offending snack. She would throw it down the rubbish chute. It came back. She would throw it again. It would come back.
It always returned.
Each clap of thunder seemed to rouse it. The oven whispered, sounding miffed. It smelled of burnt sugar and faint soil.
The storm was heavier than usual on a fine Thursday night. Until that Thursday, the biscuit never popped out of its mold.
But that day, it rose. The kitchen fell completely silent.
The dough expanded with the sound of a rubber band. Stretched. Ready to snap.
The biscuit drew a breath. Lightning illuminated the kitchen.
And the tray.
Weeks passed. Auntie Tan continued to produce batch after batch of biscuits.
They were never satiated.
Alert residents heard odd whispering coming from the kitchen, the voices an almost buttery cajole.
And the residents answered with more butter so that Auntie Tan could make more of them.
It got to the point that the Town Council issued a decree:
“Residents, please don’t feed the biscuits.”
🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪
Original microfiction 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.
A Singapore horroredy poem about slime, systems and slow-moving problems.
In Block 48, the slugs arrived quietly. The committees arrived louder.
🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌
The hard, rain pelts stop on the window panes.
The Lift buttons damp as cold breath.
Rising rainwater in small side drains.
Silver, slime streak along the void deck,
Unseen as busy feet fall.
Slithery sliding, silver antennae glistening.
An Uncle on the Resident’s Chat.
“Why so much silver, is someone too rich?”
The estate slid by slowly.
🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌
Stay safe and stoic, advised the Town Council.
Gastropods. A Gastropod Governing Guild grew.
Laminated assurances fluttered by mailboxes.
Typed concerns in stoic Arial.
Salt circles, cautiously cropped, outside homes.
Then-
Generous grumbling.
A resident on the chat.
“Why take so long to catch them, ah?
Slugs got power. ah?”
The brooms gather, grumbling.
The lift breathes. Boldly.
🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌
The silver streaks swarmed steadily
Roused rivers rising beneath yellow fluorescence.
Then, corridors clean at dawn, empty before sunset.
The cleaner auntie mops.
“So slimy, strange, ah.”
Her angry whispers traveled faster than the slimy slugs.
Only she moved without fear.
🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌
The Singapore Straits Streaming Service arrives to film
The silver streak of slugs.
Stairs Spotless.
Silver slugs-_
Swept aside.
Fresh paint over silver slime.
Official shoes squeak across polished tiles.
The estate glows for the cameras.
But
Silver streak of slugs
“Oi! Slime some more!”
🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌
Original poem 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.
