Park connector near Bishan after rain
Rain in Singapore rarely apologises. It arrives, finishes its business, and leaves the connector shining like a fresh page. After a shower the path is quieter than the block — fewer voices, more birds pretending they always owned the place.
I walk slowly because fast walking defeats the point. The red path holds puddles that mirror tree crowns. A monitor lizard crosses without drama. Cyclists nod and pass.
Halfway along I stop where the flats disappear behind foliage. You can still hear traffic, but muffled — proof that distance is sometimes only twenty metres wide.
I do not come here for exercise metrics. I come because the path asks nothing except attention. On wet days the railings smell of metal and earth; on dry days they are just hot.
An uncle feeds fish at the pond edge. We do not speak. The arrangement feels correct.
Descending, shoes damp, I write three sentences before the elevator reaches my floor. That is enough for a Tuesday.
The connector bench near the pond is painted red like the path but fades faster because people sit more than they walk there.
Cyclists ring bells that sound more polite than necessary; I step aside without resentment — shared path etiquette.
My shoes leave a faint wet outline on the lift floor; I wipe what I can out of courtesy to the auntie who mops.