But here’s the question: do such tales begin without a seed of truth?

In the kampongs of old Singapore, people spoke of spirits that borrowed familiar faces. A friend at the door who wasn’t really there. A scent arriving with no flower to name it. A swing moving when no wind stirred.

Were these only tricks of the imagination?
Or were they warnings, passed down through generations, reshaped each time they were told?

Clarice is born from this fragile border between folklore and memory—where what we believe, what we fear, and what we bury in silence begin to overlap.

It challenges readers to ask:

• Why do certain names and places cling to stories of haunting?
• Why do the same motifs—jasmine, swings, voices calling in the dark—appear again and again?
• Could it be coincidence… or a history we prefer not to face?

The tales of Clarice are not neat, not tidy, not safe. They suggest that for a story to last this long, for fear to cling this hard, there must be something underneath.

Something we can’t quite name.
Something we hope is not real—yet wonder, late at night, if it is.