There’s a witch that lives down the corridor from me.

Alright, not really, it’s just gossip that everyone on this floor liked to repeat. I’ll admit that sometimes I believed it too.

At first glance, any newcomer to this block would draw similar conclusions. Her end of the corridor was unusually dim. The light never seemed to work though I knew that the town council had sent someone to fix it multiple times.

Her door was always shut, unit flanked by large potted plants that loomed over whoever tried to approach. I suppose the plants were more intimidating in the night, where the darkness insidiously morphed them into lurking monsters.

Not that her unit was any less intimidating in the day, because there was always the strangest scent in the air whenever you came near. It wasn’t unpleasant, the scent of rotting wood. It smelled undeniably earthy, but also of decay. Something about it made your hair stand on end; like you were reminded of death.

The old woman herself was an odd person too. She was a Malay woman, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of her house in the day. It was always in the evening that one would occasionally see her hovering on her side of the corridor.

“Eh, girl ah, don’t come back so late next time. You never know, later she put a spell on you. Be careful please...”

I thought about the time Aunty Lin, my next-door neighbour, warned me about the woman. Her face was pinched in concern, her eyes wide and hands fluttering around my face as though she was trying to feel if I had a fever. I remember pulling away, a flash of irritation rising in my chest at her overbearing concern.

My mother once told me that she felt bad for the old woman, because she was probably lonely, left behind by her husband and her children.

This sympathy never extended past her words.

The lift doors opened squeakily.

Cool evening air hit the backs of my legs as I stepped out of the lift. To my right, I could see the sun was already setting, barely a thin, golden line on the horizon. I heard the call to evening prayer blare from the unit a little down the corridor, my unit.

Hurrying to my door, the sound of another gate opening caught my attention. I whipped around, and I saw the old woman walking out of her unit.

I couldn’t tell if she saw me, but she held a plastic watering can. I stared at the bright neon yellow of the can and its obnoxiously red handle, barely stifling a giggle. The incongruent sight of it in her hands suddenly rendered her as endearing rather than intimidating. Her hands shook slightly when she lifted the can, gentle as she poured water into a pot.

The bold neon of her watering can sparked something equally bold in me.

“Assalamualaikum, Nek!” I called.

Assalamualaikum meant peace be upon you, and I meant it both as a good wish and a peace offering. Maybe even an olive branch. The hand on the watering can stilled as she slowly turned in my direction, squinting against the rays of the setting sun.

For a second I thought she wasn’t going to reply, so I waved awkwardly before turning away.

Her voice was raspy. It was barely loud enough for me to hear over the clinking, metallic sound of my keys.

“Nama apa, nak?”

She asked for my name. I froze. Names were sacred things in Malay culture and Aunty Lin’s paranoid warning echoed in my mind.

What if she only wanted my name to use black magic against me for interrupting her? She could still be a witch!

But she was staring at me, face open and soft, pulling the words out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Izza.”

There was nothing in her expression to indicate her intentions. “Waalaikumsalam, Izza.”

Peace be upon you too.

###

There’s a witch that lived down the corridor from me, and she turned out to be the most interesting person I’ve ever met. She had taken the olive branch I offered her, and watered it to grow into something beautiful: an unexpected friendship.

I learned that she had taken a botany degree in her youth, working at a plant nursery till she retired.

“You can ask me anything about plants. I’ll know the answer.” She said confidently once, knowing that I’d spend the afternoon asking her juvenile questions.

She was never married, liked to sew and loved eating tin biscuits.

I also bought her a new watering can when her neon plastic one cracked because I accidentally dropped it down the block when I offered to water her plants. She’d laughed and laughed when I came back with the handle in one hand and the spout in the other.

The one I bought her was a beautiful metal one, in a calmer grey-blue shade that reminded me of her personality. I paid extra for her name to be engraved on the curved edge of the spout.

Salmah.

It took the prime spot in the cabinet with all her gardening tools. Warmth flooded my chest every time I spotted her watering her plants with it.

I ever asked her if any of her plants ever died before, seeing as she knew how to take care of them so well. She scoffed, and exclaimed, “Of course they die. Everything dies.”

She told me about how the giant Monstera plant outside her home had withered once, on the brink of death. Many of its leaves had already rotted on the surface of the soil, but she saved one, tiny partially green leaf.

That turned into the beautiful monstrosity that hovered outside her house now.

She’d painstakingly nursed it back to health, and now it was healthier than ever. She told me that I should never be sad if something was to die, or seemed to fail. It simply meant that there was a new beginning to pursue.

The lull in the conversation made me confront the question that had been gnawing at me for months now. The words never make it out of my mouth, though, maybe because a part of me already had my answer.

###

Some Sundays I come over in the morning to wake her up and we’d eat biscuits while watching her favourite Malay drama. Today was no different, except last week she told me to come over in the afternoon so she could finish preparing my present since my birthday was coming up.

I stepped out of my house excited, and pleasantly surprised by the cool breeze that afternoon.

The locked gate was no worry as she kept the spare key taped behind the Monstera plant’s pot.

Our little secret.

I opened the door to see a bunch of brand-new gardening tools tied together with a shiny purple ribbon resting beside her watering can, dangerously close to the edge of the cabinet.

Was this my gift?

She always said that I was the only one who bothered to learn how to care for the tools properly so they wouldn’t rust. I beamed proudly, shifting the tools further away from the edge.

There was also a small, potted Monstera plant sitting next to it and I cooed at how tiny the sapling was. It wasn’t even a tenth of the size of the Monstera outside. A note was taped to the ceramic pot. The neat, swirly handwriting could only be hers, and she had written.

Selamat hari jadi! Inilah permulaan baru kamu, Izza.*

I guess she picked up on the fact that I found gardening to be interesting too, and decided that my own set of tools and a starter plant was a good gift. It was perfect. She even managed to find tools whose handles were my favourite colour; purple.

Overwhelmed with emotion, my eyes welled with tears. I needed to thank her.

Speaking of her, where was she? I glanced at her bedroom door, noting that it was already ajar. She must have fallen back asleep. On nice, cooling days like today, she tended to sleep in sometimes.

I hurried to her door and pushed it open fully, eyes adjusting to the dimness. I spotted the outline of her sleeping frame right away, a frail body hidden under a thin cotton blanket.

She didn’t seem to realise my presence as I walked toward her.

“Nek,” I called softly, ready to shower her with thanks when she woke up.

She did not stir.

“Nek?” I called again, walking closer to nudge her shoulder.

The realisation crept up slowly.

Like the rays of the sun streaming in quietly, but surely through the crack in her curtains. I must have stayed there for hours, because the next thing I knew was the blinding golden streak of light splaying across the bed, over her body…

And into my eyes.

*Happy birthday! This is your new beginning, Izza.