The afternoon feels empty. The funeral is the next day, but Janet has made it clear he doesn’t need to do anything beyond turning up. He’s not in touch with anyone else in Singapore, outside of his family. He cycles through names from school, from national service, from the neighbourhood, but has no idea where any of them are now.

Revathi is the one playing tour guide now, pointing out glimpses of the old neighbourhood, the art deco features of the architecture. “Someone told me they wanted to apply for UNESCO World Heritage status, but they’d have had to restore the façades, which would mean getting rid of the aircon units. The residents said no.”

“That sounds about right. Never get between a Singaporean and their aircon.”

“Can you blame them? If you lived here, your brain would melt without it.”

“My dad, though. He just had fans.”

“Henry, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but your dad was—eccentric.”

“I’d noticed. It’s strange, there are all these things I thought were normal, and it was only when I was grown up that I realised they were just my family.”

“Lots of people have that.”

“It’s so strange that he’s gone. I think I expected him to outlive me.”

They walk past hoardings for a new condo development, the outside painted with optimistic renderings of poolside idylls and retro interior design, populated by ethnically ambiguous but light-skinned figures. “This used to be a field,” says Revathi. “I guess it was too much to expect, that they’d actually leave the empty space alone.”

“Singapore property developers abhor a vacuum.”

“Silly. Come on, let’s get some food.”

Tiong Bahru Market is where he remembers it. They have done it up, fresh paint, even escalators, but the building remains essentially the same. Fresh food downstairs, cooked food above. Revathi is more up to speed with the current etiquette—put a packet of tissue paper on an empty table to claim it, then go order your food.

The food stalls are laid out in three long rows, joined in a triangle, surrounded by functional plastic tables. The central airwell keeps things cool, as do slowly turning fans on the high ceiling. Suddenly wanting to experience all the tastes of his childhood, Henry orders too much food: chicken rice, simmered in fragrant stock and served with chilli; double-boiled herbal soup; fried oysters in an omelette; and a shaved-ice concoction for dessert. At the cold drinks stall, he watches as the lady pushes thick stalks of sugarcane through a mechanical crusher, squeezing out sweet green liquid.

“Are you starving or something?” says Revathi, eyeing his spread over her plate of fried noodles.

“I got carried away.”