As they reached their block, Lin paused. The drains were still gushing, but slower now. The city had survived. It had been baptised again.
They dashed between the pillars to the covered walkway to the hawker centre. This was the monsoon dance of the locals—the calculated sprint from one patch of shelter to the next. A man in a business suit, his leather shoes soaked, held a Straits Times over his head. A schoolgirl’s umbrella turned inside out with a loud whoosh , and she laughed, surrendering to the wet. monsoon season singapore
It was the Northeast Monsoon. December in Singapore. As they reached their block, Lin paused
Wei Jie finally looked up, confused. “The sky can’t be a sea.” It had been baptised again
Inside, she hung the umbrella by the door. A small puddle formed on the tile. Wei Jie picked up his tablet, then put it down. He went to the window instead, watching the steam rise from the road.