The morning began with the faint hum of rain and the ache of a sore throat. Celine sat by the window, holding a cup of warm water, listening to her mother scolding her for leaving the lights on. “Save electricity,” her mother had said sharply, while Celine muttered something about being tired. The day was a public holiday, yet the air felt heavy with unfinished things.
Her phone buzzed. “Good morning, Celine. Happy Deepavali,” read a message from Mr. Mok. His usual warmth carried through even text. She smiled faintly, replying with a soft “Happy Deepavali.”
Later that morning, she showed him the keychain she had made — a small piece of art, something heartfelt. But the connection faltered, and so did the keychain when he inspected it.
“There’s a hairline crack,” he murmured, turning it over under the light. “But don’t worry. We’ll fix it.”
It became their tiny project — screws, gears, and patient breaths. His hands moved carefully; hers steadied the parts. There was laughter, a quiet sense of teamwork, and for a moment, the world felt simpler.
When they finished, the keychain spun smoothly again.
“Our first repair,” she said with pride.
He smiled. “Then next time, we fix a printer.”
They laughed, but soon, the laughter gave way to honesty. “You seem stressed at work,” she said softly.
He paused — the kind of silence that revealed more than words. “Reports, meetings, expectations… I guess I push people away when it gets too much.”
Celine nodded. “I see that. But I understand too.”
Then his tone softened. “You notice things others don’t.”
The conversation drifted from work to food — har gow, porridge, chicken pies — until suddenly, the air shifted again. When she mentioned her mum forcing her to go to work sick, something broke inside him. His calm shattered into fury. Words struck like thunder.
“You’re sick and she still—?” he shouted, slamming his palm on the table.
“Don’t scold,” she said quietly, trembling.
It took him a long time to calm down. When he finally did, his voice cracked. “None of this is your fault.” He looked away, ashamed of his outburst.
Before leaving, she said gently, “I’m still Celine, even if you forget me.”
That stopped him. He blinked, eyes glassy, emotion raw and human.
“Of course you are,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll come to me first next time.”
“I will,” she said.
And when she stepped out into the afternoon light, the keychain in her hand caught the sun — spinning quietly, whole again.
