20 June 2026
Six in the Morning, Downstairs
At six the coffee shop under the block is already awake — fluorescent, clatter, the first kopi pulled like a curtain rising.
I come down in slippers because formality before sunrise feels absurd. Uncle Raj nods once; that is the entire conversation.
Steam fogs the window from inside. Outside, the void deck holds the last cool air the night saved.
A delivery rider waits for a bag of packets. A auntie reads the paper without turning pages yet. The city rehearses patience.
I take the corner table where the pillar blocks the fan directly on my neck. The kopi is hot enough to require small sips.
From here I can see the lift lobby and the stairwell door with green tiles on the third landing — a landmark I use when I am half asleep.
Writing begins in the head before it begins on paper. These morning minutes are the first draft no one reads.
By six-thirty the sun touches the opposite block and the steam on the glass thins. The shop fills with breakfast orders.
I climb back upstairs before the queue reaches the table. The memo is already half written in memory.
Whampoa at six is not picturesque; it is useful. Useful is underrated as a subject.
The coffee shop closes twice a year for cleaning. On those days I learn how much I depend on the ritual rather than the drink.