Journal

Every story, in order of tide.

Newest first. Short reads — one ripple each, written before the day smooths the sand again.

I do not chase big events here. I catch what rolls in — and leave before the next wave covers it.

Main article · 12 November 2025

What the Street Left Unfinished

An evening near 51 Chin Swee that never settled into a complete picture — urgency at a distance, ordinary windows, and a silence that stayed.

Kopi ready before I spoke. Some kindnesses arrive like a current you did not know you were standing in.

Same seat, same light. The afternoon passes through without hurry or announcement.

Two aunties, a boy rehearsing lines, the stop holding it all without comment.

Basil in chipped terracotta. Three doors, three hands. Green that outlasted the words.

Smooth, salt-pale, perfectly placed. I left it for whoever walked the shore next.