The Lantern on the Third Floor

Every night I climb the stairs instead of taking the lift. Not for fitness — please — but because the stairwell is where my block shows its face without performing for visitors. Paint slightly chipped on the outer tread. A potted plant on the second-floor window ledge that someone waters inconsistently. And on the third-floor landing, the red lantern.

I do not know who hangs it. It appears to be the same lantern, or a series of identical replacements, switched on around the time the kopitiam downstairs begins pulling in chairs. The light is soft — not the harsh fluorescent of the stairwell bulb, but a warm red glow that makes the landing feel briefly like a shophouse corridor rather than HDB concrete.

My ritual is this: I pause on the third floor for exactly as long as it takes to tie my shoelace if my shoelace were actually untied. I check the lantern glass for cracks (none lately). I listen for the mahjong click from unit 03- somewhere — it is not always there, but when it is, the sound travels down the stairwell like a friendly proof that people are home. Then I continue upward.

At street level, before I enter the block, I pass the corner temple. Another ritual, less fixed: I slow my step near the incense coil stand. If the air carries smoke that evening, I nod — not praying, not exactly, just acknowledging that this corner has its own calendar of offerings and I am a passer-by who has learned not to hurry through it.

The temple auntie who tends the stand knows my face but not my name. She once handed me a leaflet about a community dinner I did not attend. I kept the leaflet in my kitchen drawer for months, not from interest but from the awkwardness of throwing away something offered with a smile.

People ask whether rituals need belief. I think they need repetition. The lantern on the third floor belongs to someone else's belief, or tradition, or simply their taste in landing decoration. My repetition is the pause — the small act of noticing before I resume being a person who wants to reach unit 05 and take off their shoes.

Last week the lantern was missing for three days. The landing looked bare in a way that embarrassed me — as if I had been relying on a neighbour's effort without acknowledging it. On the fourth day it was back, slightly higher on the hook, the cord trimmed. I felt an unreasonable relief. I did not knock on any door to say thank you. Singapore teaches you many forms of neighbourliness; loud gratitude at someone's threshold is not always the right one.

Tonight the lantern swings a little in the draft from the stairwell window someone left cracked open. Downstairs, the five-foot-way is quiet except for a motorbike ticking as it cools. I complete my climb, reach my floor, and the ritual ends until tomorrow. Same stairs, same landing, same red light holding its small ground against the fluorescent hum.