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.
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
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.” That night, Erin followed the map
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 Collection House
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.”