It was no bigger than a glasses case, lacquered black with a chipped gold latch. The vendor, a wizened auntie selling vintage buttons, waved a dismissive hand. “ Erin bugis koleksi ,” she said. “Erin’s Bugis collection. You take. Five dollars.”
Erin had always loved the musty, magical smell of Bugis Junction’s old shopping arcades—not the sleek mall, but the tangled warren of vinyl stalls, herbal shops, and second-hand bookstores tucked behind the main street. That’s where she found the box. erin bugis koleksi
Erin smiled. She placed a 2024 MRT card stub inside—a small relic of her own Singapore. Then she wrapped the box, left the brick loose, and walked home, already thinking of who the third Erin might be. It was no bigger than a glasses case,
Inside, nestled on faded velvet, were three objects: a tiny brass key, a folded slip of paper with a map drawn in faint brown ink, and a dried bunga raya —a hibiscus flower—so perfectly preserved it still held a ghost of crimson. “Erin’s Bugis collection
That night, Erin followed the map. It led her not to a treasure, but to a crumbling back lane behind the old Sultan’s mosque, where a loose brick revealed a hollow. Inside was a photograph of a young woman in a 1960s kebaya, smiling next to a sign: Rumah Koleksi Erin . Erin’s Collection House.
The note on the back read: “For the next Erin—I saved what I loved so the future wouldn’t forget. Add something you love, then hide it again.”