Enid
As I sip yet another hot brew of lemongrass tea with honey, I sit contemplating my next move. My trembling, sweaty hands, which even the tea doesn’t seem to steady, make it difficult for me to type. For being a storyteller comes with its own boundaries of wariness — especially, a story like this one that leaves you shaking to your very core, as I am right now. I still remember that cold, crisp December morning when mom and I were looking for a new apartment to rent. Tired of our leaky roof, damp walls and noisy neighbours, we craved a wholesome change. That morning, I was the happiest I had ever been after an aleatory phone call from our hardworking broker left me beaming. Our house had been on the market for six months before we closed on a decent offer that left us with some savings, despite the damage the roof repairs had done to our pockets. “The house sold!” — her voice had the same excitement, I imagine, of someone who had just won the lottery. I remember thinking, ‘This ol...