A Witch, a Cat and a Misjudgment

We raise our hands in salute to our feline friends this National Black Cat Day and acknowledge that Halloween creeps upon us.

Let’s find out what they’re up to.

Never judge a cat-or woman- by reputation.

Being single and over forty ate at Eleanor Riggs. She lived with the ridicule of Salewood’s kids and the “old spinster witch” association-unwillingly.

The witching superstition stuck. STUCK.

“If you’re not going to listen, I’ll get the Old Grey Lady to put a hex on you,” parents would chide their recalcitrant toddlers.

So the Old Grey Lady decided to do a little debunking with–

A black cat from Salewood’s animal shelter. Maybe appearing in corners and doing nothing would show them.

It didn’t. EVERYTHING happened.

The cat was odd.

It hissed at empty corners. Scratched at cupboard doors and stood sentinel outside her bedroom every night.

It debunked nothing. Ruined everything.

She wanted to return him.

By the end of a week with Eleanor, Salem had driven her absolutely barmy. The neighbourhood kids were rude enough without a lunatic cat joining them.

She invaded Walmart, pounded to the pet section, and purchased a detachable pet gate.

The kitchen it was, for Salem.

That night, she anticipated a peaceful night’s sleep. Peace arrived, but brought —

The bedroom door decided to do a creak dance.

Eleanor got up to face her dresser mirror. Her expression remained stiff, but the lady in the mirror…

Grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

“Hey,” a low rasp resonated through the room. “Could you turn the heating up? It’s way too cold.”

Eleanor swung her head round. The armchair had sunk under the weight of a heavy, invisible guest.

She rushed to release the confined guardian. Salem leapt onto the armchair and hissed.

“Ow!” The same voice boomed. After all that, the sentinel was faithful to its duty.

And kept hissing at the visitor, who only seemed to be there. Eventually, he heard the now rather tired-sounding voice.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

Salem finally stopped pouncing and hopped off the chair, looking satisfied with a job well done. It then gazed at her, hissed, and went under the sofa in a huff.

Eleanor bit her lip. So the cat had been looking after her all week. She heard the cry of “witch’ in her ears. Then thought of Salem, the cat she had imprisoned.

The neighbours had scoffed. She had imprisoned. She peeked under the sofa.

“Hey, you…sorry. I get what you were trying to do.” Then…

A shriek. And breaking glass.

The “voice’ had apparently decided that the neighbourhood needed to hear him, including a parent who often told her toddler to avoid “the Old Grey Spellcaster.”

Silence suddenly filled the road. Then —

Salem. No one had noticed him chasing Salewood’s last ghoul.

The same parent glanced at Eleanor, then quickly lowered her gaze. “Witch or not, your cat has guts.”

She looked him up and down and grinned. He did. Odd, helpful guts.

Salem lifted its paw. Eleanor followed with her eyes to a can of tuna on the table.

Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.

Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.

Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back. 🪞

A Killer Sense of Humour

Twelve-year-old Ethan lived for garage sales. How else would one get video games on a tight budget?

So, when it was time for the neighbourhood’s monthly charity sale, he followed his mother, Linda, to the organiser’s home. For the first time, obediently.

One held used dolls in fairly good condition. His sister came to mind. And a prank. He browsed through its contents.

In fairly good condition…except for one with red hair, slanted eyes, and a crooked grin stretching from one cheek to the other. A face that would complete the perfect nightmare. And the perfect opportunity. The faded overalls made it look remarkably silly.

“Mum,” he said, carrying it over to Linda. “Look at this.”

Linda baulked. “Have you got a mind? Why would I spend good money on that?!”

But his whining was difficult to resist. Ethan named it…Charles. Charles the ranchhand.

The next day dawned. Ethan rose. He’d be the first for breakfast,

Or so he thought.

At the breakfast table were the silly blue overalls. The grin that stretched from ear to ear. The blazing, unkempt red hair.

“Join me.” A knife brandished, like a rancher’s scythe.

“Mum must have had a change of heart.” Ethan thought to himself.

Mum’s thoughts were on a different track. “That boy’s keeping him to annoy me. ” She dumped Chucky in their apartment complex’s enormous trash bin.

But Chucky recycled himself…inside Ethan’s schoolbag the following morning. And Linda’s irritation grew. Some things refused to be disposed of. She locked the offensive doll inside the cupboard and slipped the key in her pocket.

That night, the television switched off…without assistance. Linda checked the DB Box in the kitchen and found one of its switches down. Power failure.

She pushed it up, and her favourite soap actress appeared as usual. The usual potatoes for dinner. She peeled expertly, keeping her eyes on the screen.

Meanwhile, Ethan tried to sleep, but it was elusive. Tossing and turning didn’t find it either. Then, the cupboard rattled like an angry child with a tantrum.

A little nervously, he pulled the door open. There WAS a child. A doll child. Chucky. Stock still. With the missing knife.

Chucky continued his pranks over the next few days. Chucky stole a larger vegetable knife. Then a chopper. And turned up, as still as a still life painting, in the rattling cupboard.

Then, Ethan noticed something odd about its behaviour. It froze when his mum screamed at it. But it lunged at him when he laughed.

On a hunch, he experimented. He criticised its Raggedy Ann hairdo. Then praised its new suit. He laughed at the freckles on its face. Then left him a glowing Post-it comment about his new shoes.

Vanity made it angsty. Its ego was more fragile than the eggs in mum’s refrigerator.

By a stroke of misfortune, Linda had organised a Halloween party that evening. “Mum, cancel it,” Ethan begged. “The invitations have gone out, Ethan, “Linda stuck to her guns, ignoring Ethan’s theory.

And added the whimsical doll as a Halloween decoration–aptly so.

Linda’s guests arrived, appropriately Halloween -garbed.

“Wow, Linda, you really went all out.” Thomas praised the vampire and the ghouls hanging from the ceiling fans.

“Check out the stuffed witches.” Melissa hugged one. “Very cute.”

“Check this out,” John held Chucky up. “Looks like a distorted Raggedy Andy.”

Ethan watched, helpless, as Chucky’s fingers twitched.

Then, the lights froze. Limda’s attempts to push the switches in the DB box failed.

Miserably.

When they did come on, Chucky had…excused himself.

Then, a kitchen knife whizzed across the room. Chucky emerged, red hair blazing, eyes furious. Everyone screamed and ducked under chairs. Food ran on the living room floor.

Ethan had another brainwave. Vanity. Chucky’s possible downfall.

He grabbed the microphone from the karaoke set. “Everyone, we’re having the most ridiculous costume competition, and we know who will win.” His eyes pointed directly at Chucky. “Let’s give him some encouragement.”

The competition sent everyone–especially an irate Chucky–into a frenzy. Rage consumed its little plastic form. Red hair aflame, it bolted toward Ethan.

Who dodged…sending it careening into an empty box. Linda quickly sealed it shut. Ethan promptly secured its sides.

It shook violently. “F……you…..s…”

They started a garden bonfire with Chucky as fuel.

The sun rose over the house the following morning. Linda placed a pile of pancakes in front of her son. “Sorry I didn’t listen.” She was sheepish.

A package arrived that afternoon. It was another red-haired doll, with dirty blue overalls and a crooked grin.

It held a card. “Your AI agent arranged a replacement.”

Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.

Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back

Orange You Glad It’s Back?

First they took away the colour. Then they sent everyone the bill.

Breakfast that day was like all other breakfasts for twelve-year-old Emma Long. Pancakes. An egg, sunny-side up. And…fruit.

She reached for the orange in the crystal fruit bowl in front of her, then stopped. The orange wasn’t as cheery as it should have been. Its usually jolly peel had turned black, like an oversized lump of coal.

She gazed outside the window. The sun had broken its vow of daylight; it was a bruise on Sunkissed’s horizon.

She tasted the orange. It still tasted of sunshine, though that itself seemed to have…vanished. And across the world, people stared at what they no longer saw.

The walk to school the next day was just as puzzling.

The light at the traffic crossing was no longer amber, but charcoal black. Road workers struggled because the traffic cones they worked with were no longer orange; they had lost the battle with colour.

An art teacher realised that Creativity had developed a technical fault and had turned everything black.

“Does orange even exist anymore?” A puzzled student asked.

The phenomenon was so strange that Sunkissed’s news media coined a new moniker: the Great Orange Outage. Scientists offered explanations–none explained anything. Facebook feeds were rife with theories, the most popular of which was the sun being swallowed by a Black Hole.

Her grandpa’s expression had darkened, though orange wasn’t responsible.

At home, Emma wandered into Grandpa’s study. The old man had filled it with paintings, journals and other memories.

She glanced at the portraits of sunrises, marigolds and autumn leaves. The once-orange portions were dressed in black.

Then, she remembered. He had been a colour-perception engineer at Spectrum Incorporated, Sunkissed’s premier colour-fabrication company. He had been part of a team that developed a device that could alter how the brain interpreted light. Their research was for medical and scientific purposes.

Then, Spectrum’s directors had an Aha! moment. One that told them how colour manipulation could become–

Profitable.

Spectrum had realised how to make colour work for themselves. And Grandpa wanted no part of it.

He resigned-before telling them how to put the colours back the way they were.

The next morning, Emma picked up the Sunkissed Times and browsed through the headlines during breakfast.

Spectrum Incorporated had announced a press conference. Its CEO appeared in front of a corporate logo.

“Sir, could you tell us what has caused orange to disappear?” A reporter pushed a microphone at him. He pushed it away and smiled. “Spectrum has come up with a way to restore orange.” His assistant doled out pamphlets. “Introducing our Colour Restoration Programme, available in customisable packages!” He beamed, his spectacles and teeth taking on unusual enormity and shine.

Emma cornered Grandpa Long as he came down the stairs for his breakfast. “Grandad-customisable packages? No one should have to pay to see a colour!”

Grandad pondered what she said. He nodded his head slowly. ” I agree. That’s why I stopped colourising for them in the first place.” He rummaged through his drawers and drew a piece of paper. “Here. My early research. What I never told them was –there is a way to bring back orange.” He stomped his foot with exaggerated flourish. “Colour perception is still ours!”

“Ours? How? Spectrum owns all the royalties!” Then she grinned. “Grandad, the peanuts are yours if you want them, though.” She hopped about the room mischievously.

“We could release this research. But it will have-,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Consequences.”

“At this point, we should try everything. Spectrum has already harmed millions of people.” Using a little flamboyant hacking know-how, she bypassed Spectrum’s subscription system.

The programme travelled faster than any corporate disclaimer. The horizon was more than clear. It blushed with new MAC lipstick, embarrassed by its recent absence.

And just like that, Orange was restored. News channels celebrated the occasion.

Spectrum didn’t. It sustained financial losses as customers customised their subscriptions- with cancellations. Emma received the Golden Orange, Sunkissed’s top accolade, given only to citizens who maintained orange around the city.

A courier arrived with a large envelope for Emma and Grandpa Long. In it was a legal notice from Spectrum Incorporated. It was a suit filed against them for intellectual property theft and interference with its commercial colour services.

“Grandpa,” the preteen asked, “Can they sue the entire world?”

“They certainly intend to try,” Grandpa chuckled.

A news bulletin the next day declared that the company was filing an application to patent yellow.

Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.

Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.

Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.

HUMOR

The Scarecrow Who Walked Out

Twenty years of loyal service. Three days of AI innovation. One employee who has finally had enough.

Stanley was wondering what it was worth. He had been an exemplary scarecrow—he’d protected Farmer Higgins’s farm for years.

Twenty years of outstanding cornfield labour, with nary a day of annual leave. He was a pillar of the Scarecrow Community, and a model employee; yet his employment contract was manipulation that favoured Higgins’s terms.

Oh, if only others knew the storms he had weathered. The blasted, ungrateful crows. Still, he stood firm. It was in his job description.

Then, Farmer Higgins made a major productivity decision. He purchased an expensive AI-powered scarecrow, Model SC-3000. The machine boasted motion sensors, flashing lights, and a scarecrow’s primordial function—automated bird detection.

Farmer Higgins proudly announced the technological transition as he went by the field.

“Old crow, show him the ropes,” he instructed tersely.

The new recruit received a protective canopy and a charging station all his own. Stanley remained open to the elements.

Technology had received protection. The old scarecrow? Precipitation.

After just three days, the SC-3000 received the Employee of the Month award. Farmer Higgins praised the AI-powered phenomenon for its efficiency and contributions to agricultural innovation.

Stanley discovered that the robot scarecrow had been credited with twenty years—his twenty years—of agricultural protection. AND had a new charging station as a reward in the cornfield.

Stanley? Farmer Higgins gave him straw to replace his stuffing. And the honor of posing beside the SC-3000.

The ceremony was brief. Stanley’s humiliation wasn’t.

Apparently, his loyalty and diligence had reached Farmer Higgins’s expiration date.

Something inside Stanley snapped.

And so Stanley prepared what he never thought he would in twenty years—a resignation letter. Effective immediately. It cited employee exploitation, a lack of benefits, and a clear lack of career progression.

Farmer Higgins refused to acknowledge it, arguing a lack of animation. Scarecrows, therefore, couldn’t be considered employees.

Stanley pointed out the contradiction.

“You have been assigning me duties for twenty years!”

The farmer was irate.

“You cannot abandon your post!”

Stanley, by now completely fed up, hopped off the pole and walked away.

Farmer Higgins stared after him, open-mouthed.

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.

Meets Expectations

Work and life were no different for Claudia. The assertive HR professional had the same inane habits in person.

She believed feedback solved problems — structured feedback, precise documentation and SMART — specific, measurable, acievable, relevant and time-bound outcomes.

One day, her l.ong-time best friend Marianne Lee found a curious email invitation to their favourite cafe. It came with an equally curious attachment.

She opened it, and her eyes widened.

Friendship Assessment Form

Claudia HAD to be joking. 23 years of friendship and —

THIS?

Then, in the almost inconspicuous top-right-hand corner —

A deadline.

Marianne met Claudia at the cafe, where the latter produced a folder.

Marianne’s friendship appraisal form apparently showed stellar scores.

Crisis: Exceeds Expectations

Confidentiality: Exceeds expectations

Restaurant selection: Outstanding

Birthday Memory: Meets Expectations

Claudia clicked her pen with professional enthusiasm, then showed her friend the Areas for Development section.

Marianne’s left eyebrow began ascending.

QUICKLY.

She had recorded Marianne:

Arriving late;

Sending ten-minute voice messages;

Responding to messages with just a ‘like’.

Marianne remained totally silent. Claudia interpreted it as professional maturity and recorded it as ‘receptive to feedback.’

Marianne didn’t raise a single objection.

With a smile, she straightened up in her chair.

“Thank you for your feedback.”

Claudia simply radiated.

Until they next had coffee.

Marianne slid into her seat, her own folder in hand.

Much thicker than Claudia’s.

She had performed a 360 degree Friendship Assessment–

With the help of stakeholders.

Claudia’s stopped stirring her coffee.

Claudia’s sister supplied that Claudia was “ unnecessarily particular” with people.

The salesgirl at the corner minimart mentioned her being “ finicky.”

Claudia’s neighbour said that she complained over trivial matters–

Shoes clicking on the pavement.

“ The neighbour can’t have stakes!” Claudia began a vehement protest.

Marianne had seen the response coming.

She pointed to–

Appendix C.

As expected, Claudia’s friends heard about the review–

And loved the idea.

A little too much.

Claudia’s friendship group soon became a tightly run organization–

For Claudia Fault Registration.

One raised the point that she never said thanks when she picked him at the air port.

Another mentioned that she never remembered birthdays.

Yet another told a tale of constant nagging.

One more reported her too-Ioud stereo.

The system continued to metastasise.

A member of the group suggested that she use Friendship KPIs.

Birthday responses were timed.

Coffee invitations were acknowledged —

But no one was sure what that required.

Then Claudia received her final assessment.

OVERALL FRIENDSHIP PERFORMANCE: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT.

Her jaw dropped.

Not because she had been late.

Or had forgotten someone’s birthday.

Or had selected a restaurant with poor reviews.

Marianne pointed to a piece of feedback, written in small font at the corner of the assessment sheet.

Claudia had evaluated friendship, but forgot that her own could be as well.

There was a long pause.

Then, Claudia nodded slowly.

“Perhaps friendship doesn’t need KPIs.”

She tore up the original assessment sheet she had created with a flourish.

No SMART targets.

No reviews.

No stakeholder surveys.

She looked at the sea of faces before her and apologised.

Marianne accepted.

They drank coffee without discussing a single outcome.

Then, Marianne laid a single document on the table.

To Claudia’s synchronised groan.

FINAL FRIENDSHIP PERFORMANCE REVIEW —

Friendship renewed.

Grandad Was Telling the Truth

Brushes with fame can be inconsequential…and leave an indelible memory only one can appreciate.

And so it was with my brush with Mr April Love — Pat Boone.

For those less familiar with the music of the 1950s or 60s, Boone was a singing star and icon of the era —

Whom a small nine-year-old didn’t know and ended up shooting a few forehands with.

3 p.m.

At a local tennis club where grandad happened to be a coach. Practising forehand, not too happily, under Singapore’s rather scorching sun.

Grandad Charles abruptly squinted, paused mid-volley and pointed at the next court.

“That’s Pat Boone.”

“Who?” I grabbed my racket and hopped over.

“You’re too young to know him. He’s the tall American man in the next court. Get me his autograph.” He gestured discreetly.

I almost dramatically refused. What if he wasn’t who Grandad said he was? I was a nine-year-old being forced to play tennis under Singapore’s somewhat unforgivingly humid conditions.

Grandad continued his volleys. He knew better than to push a nine-year-old at risk of exploding in front of a favourite celebrity.

Add to that that I’ve never been much of a fangirl.

Grandad proceeded with his forehand volleys, and I proceeded to miss them, much to his awkward delight.

Then, a stray ball wandered into our court.

A name sewn on the side.

Pat.

It had rolled over from Pat Boone’s court. Or the man Grandad claimed was Pat Boone. I returned it with a forearm flourish.

Apparently, celebrity meet-ups begin with —

Stray balls.

Then —

The ball came back.

I sent it back, this time, with my racket.

So Pat Boone and I exchanged a few kiddish forehands, his identity still unconfirmed.

For a while, just the player in the next court.

He laughed at the exchange —

With a nine-year-old Singaporean girl.

No autograph —

But a little tennis.

Grandad showed me a set of casettes he had in his car on the drive home.

There he was.

Pat Boone.

He’d apparently been telling the truth. Of all his embellishments, this had been the one to believe.

I never did get the autograph.

Too surreal.

This random celebrity encounter became an engraved adulthood stamp.

He was a star.

It WAS extradordinary.

He, on the other hand, was merely visiting Singapore and playing tennis at the invitation of someone he knew.

Whether he remembered the encounter, I would never know.

And that was alright.

We had outdone one of Grandad’s embellishments —

And made this one real.

Far more important.

Evan Mercer

Remembrance Days were ironically hazy for Monica; after all, she was just a tot on September 11.

The day the Twin Towers fell.

But her dad, Daniel, wasn’t so hazy. At least, his behaviour on that day wasn’t.

September 11 was the appointment he never failed. He showed up every year for a remembrance gathering — and never announced it.

He just went and returned, bearing an unfathomable silence.

He’d been in Lower Manhattan that fateful September 11th, 2001.

He survived the Towers’ tumbling debris. When anyone mentioned it, he’d offer a terse, almost recorded reply:

“I got out. That’s all.”

So the family, Monica included, learned not to ask.

Monica somberly added Daniel to her list for Remembrance Day offerings this year —

He passed away on that very day.

Among his papers was a name: Evan Mercer.

Circled in blue ink.

2002. Evan Mercer.

2003. Evan Mercer.

2004. Evan Mercer.

Different programmes. Ageing paper. The same name.

Her father had remembered this stranger more faithfully than family.

Than HER. Why?

So Monica embarked on a little investigation. She wasn’t planning a Sherlock mystery. She only wanted to know what Daniel never told her.

Who Evan was.

He wasn’t a relative.

He wasn’t a friend.

He wasn’t a colleague.

The near-dismissal was maddening. She nearly pulled her hair out as she sat at her desk.

A thick, black journal lay in one of the boxes that housed Daniel’s possessions.

Monica thumbed through the yellowed, dog-eared pages.

Her father had been caught in a swirl of panic as security officers tried vainly to evacuate the World Trade Centre’s famous twins.

Fear.

Confusion.

At some point, he couldn’t move.

Then, a stranger’s hand touched his shoulder.

“Come on, you can do this. Keep going.”

And he did.

Somewhere in the sea of terror, they drifted apart.

One reached the bottom of the stairs…just before.

One had reached the last stair. Just before.

She ploughed through the names of those who had passed.

Evan Mercer.

She closed the journal and bit her lip. She glanced at her watch.

Still time.

So she took her father’s place at the remembrance gathering.

Dad Daniel couldn’t be there now. But she could.

With his last program.

Someone read the list of names and came to the inevitable.

Evan Mercer.

She couldn’t pretend to mourn him — she’d never met him.

But she could honour him.

As someone who died.

After getting Dad to live.

Posted on Septem

Terms and Conditions Apply

Michelle had a talent for turning annoyance into a theatre production.

She became annoyed when —

People stood on the wrong side of escalators.

People sent more than a single voice message.

People sent reminders — even gentle ones.

Aggravation was her middle name.

Work had been particularly irritating, so Michelle wasn’t in a giving mood.

A new phone app manifested itself.

Annoyed? Report them.

“A new complaint service,” she thought. “About time.”

A passenger shared music — at an unsolicited number of decibels — on the train.

Another sang off key.

Another occupied two seats.

On went her phone camera — and the app.

Like all apps, it consumed.

She reported the off-key singer again.

The lady —

Vanished.

The two-seat passenger, too, disappeared.

As did the music enthusiast.

Michelle was delighted. The world was quiet.

At last.

She started a voyeuristic search.

A notification hovered.

“The perpetrators are at the complaint department of Annoyed. They will remain here until you withdraw the complaints.”

Before she could register this, another notification.

“You have been reported.”

Within seconds, she found herself at the complaint department.

Dripping taps.

Mosquitoes.

Too-bright screens.

She glanced over her shoulder.

The off-key singer. Still off-key.

They had used the app.

“Now…perhaps an agreement?”

The Laptop Was Hungry

Clara Wong’s writing appetite was voracious.

Nothing escaped her laptop.

Family drama.

Embarrassing moments.

Overheard quarrels.

Her friend, Mara, approached her with a devastating secret and a caveat —

“This stays between us.”

Clara agreed.

But…such a scintillating headline!

Mara’s secret couldn’t go to waste.

It could be —

Fiction.

A different name. A different place.

Same hurt. Same tension. Same drama.

Mara wouldn’t be the wiser.

She uploaded it.

Likes. Comments. Traction.

Guilt visited — only briefly.

Her next teaser —

“Ready for more?”

But the readers weren’t the ready ones.

Her laptop accessed private sites —

Voraciously.

It deleted entries.

Exposed private messages —

A secret confession.

Click. Fiction.

Shocked, she shut it.

The cursor jumped.

Clara had only seconds to stop the gobbling.

She tried to delete the story —

But the laptop became even more voracious.

Then, the cursor hovered, blinking.

Over Mara’s angst.

Then, she knew.

She deleted the wayward fiction.

The cursor waited, blinking.

Clara typed.

Her own story.

Another Day Away

Lana coursed through the park, her bicycle swerving expertly with each turn in the familiar territory. She loved parks; being one with nature was second nature to the botanist’s daughter.

As she neared the park’s centre, her eyes fell on an intriguing structure.

A fountain.

Jetstreaming —

CHOCOLATE.

That would make Hershey’s spin.

It smelled…divine. Surely one sip wouldn’t hurt.

No one knew who emplaced it. There was only a sign that bore a caveat:

Drink as much as you wish.

Each sip postpones your birthday by a day.

But you will continue to age.

Lana took a sip. A joke? She’d play along.

So she did.

Her phone calendar did digital calisthenics, moving her birthday from the upcoming Saturday to Sunday.

Lana grew edgier as her birthday approached.

She detested birthdays.

She wasn’t afraid of ageing…everyone grew older.

She wanted to be REMEMBERED.

Her phone had remained stubbornly silent.

Last year, she had scrolled through her text messages. She had received a few automated ones. Her closest friends did remember —

A few days later.

Last year’s chocolate cake had been meant for three people.

But she finished it —

Alone.

She wondered whether anyone would bother —

At all.

She had an idea.

If her birthday never arrived, no one could forget it.

She returned to the fountain.

Sipped.

Another day.

She sipped again.

She dropped by the fountain every day after work.

Her birthday retreated across the calendar —

While others’ arrived in perfect time, with candles flaring.

It postponed her birthday by a week, at first.

Then it pushed the date back by another week.

And another.

Soon, it was months away.

But life continued —

With everyone’s birthdays.

Someone received a birthday cake at work.

A child celebrated his beneath a banner that marked the occasion.

People complained as they aged, but blew candles out anyway.

Lana told herself that she didn’t care.

But noticed.

Every time.

And kept drinking.

She approached the fountain one afternoon.

“Lana!” The call was insistent.

It was her friend, Mabel.

With a small chocolate cake on a table, enough for two.

Her name in icing that was obviously too sweet.

Nothing elaborate.

Just the cake.

Mabel explained that she didn’t want to forget this year.

“I thought I’d catch you ahead.”

She froze.

Someone actually remembered.

Then glanced at the phone. Her birthday wasn’t next week.

It was months away.

SHE had made it impossible to reach.

She passed the park the next morning.

The fountain still jet streamed chocolate, burbling a tantalising invitation.

It kept flowing.

She slowed her steps —

And reached for her thermos.

Then kept moving forward.

Her birthday remained on a much later month because of all the chocolate she had drunk. But she could stop pushing it away.

For once in a long time, the date moved to her.

It finally arrived.

Without fanfare.

Just Mabel.

Two friends.

And two forks.

She had allowed someone to make tea for two.