A Morning of Panic and Community Support
It was just past six in the morning when I awoke to the sound of children screaming. Groggy and disoriented, I shuffled to my front door to find my neighbours, Ping Peng and his younger brother, knocking urgently.
They were shouting for us to evacuate immediately—there was a fire on the fourth floor. Turning to my kitchen window, I was met with a billowing cloud of black smoke.
As more neighbours spilled into the corridor, we all hurried towards the void deck. I rushed back to wake my mother, helping her out of bed and offering my arm for support as we navigated the staircase. Her disability made it difficult for us to move quickly.
A man noticed our struggle and ran over to carry my mother down to safety. He helped several other elderly residents as well. I later learned he lived across the way and had spotted the fire on his way to work. I’m thankful he chose to help instead of simply going to work that morning.
Looking up from the ground floor, I was frozen in shock as black smoke poured from the fourth-floor window. I kept hoping it would stop, as if it were just a water leak, but it continued to rage on.
Though I wanted to rush upstairs to help, my feet felt glued to the ground. Just the day before, friends had reassured me that things were looking up; as a freelance photographer, the easing of restrictions meant new work opportunities. But worry gripped me as I thought of my hard drive upstairs and whether my photo archive was at risk.
Before my anxiety could overwhelm me, guilt took over—how could I be concerned about my job when a crisis was unfolding? Now, whenever I pass the burned unit, I remember my neighbour who tragically lost their life that day.
Our once vibrant flowers now lay scorched. My mother and I care for the few surviving saplings as if they were patients in a hospital. We’ve repotted and watered them, moving them closer to the sunlight, but many have turned to ashes.
In the aftermath of the fire, we’ve been staying at my brother’s house. Every few days, we return home to gather clothes, and each time we walk through the hallways, a chill settles in. We occasionally try to talk about our experiences, but often it feels easier to sit in silence.
We’ve begun the arduous task of cleaning our flat, scrubbing away the soot that covers our belongings. My hard drive was coated in thick black residue, but a friend who came to assess it reassured me that my files remained intact.
The walls are still dark, and no matter how much we wipe, the grime refuses to budge. Gradually, the colour shifts from black to grey, but our once-white walls remain obscured. I notice cobwebs on the ceiling now, their visibility heightened by the soot. I wonder how I never noticed them before and if the spiders that wove them survived.
Once we moved back in, I found myself sitting in my study for hours, immobilized by the lingering smell of smoke. Though I wish this is the last of it, I can’t shake the fear that a similar disaster could occur again. I must always be prepared.
I’ve started purchasing fire extinguishers and home insurance, ensuring my electrical appliances are in good condition, and diligently backing up my data. Raised to avoid burdening others with my problems, I realize I’m no hero. My mother’s vulnerability has become more evident, but I struggle even more with my own insecurities.
Yet, amidst the tragedy, there have been silver linings. Neighbours I never spoke to before have begun sharing their stories and feelings with me. Those I already knew have become pillars of support. As I said, silver linings do exist.
