The walls had been repainted. The soccer field was smaller. We had a whiteboard now. The place was quiet. My friends weren’t here.

They had already left hours ago, after the leaving-school ceremony. Gone, for the last time, because they had bigger and better schools and things to move on to. Everyone was growing up. Even this school. Even me.

I turned from the railing and returned to my classroom. It was empty but for the usual rows of desks and chairs. I began thinking, would I stay in here forever if I could? It wasn’t a bad life. My class had always been studying and playing hard, and whenever I went home I couldn’t wait to tell my mother and father that today Gopal caught a bee, but we made him set it free, or that Yi Jing gave a Elaine a hug as his birthday gift to her, or some other thrill or adventure we had shared together.

But whenever I asked my parents how their day was, they sighed and talked about their never-ending work, how the drink machine broke down, and the annoying people they have to work with. Was this what I was studying for, what I was going towards as I passed my exams and moved up another level?

I knew it was important too. But when I work, next time when I’m old enough, would I – would we still play pranks on each other, pat each other on the back when we fail Maths and cry, throw birthday parties, and see each other everyday? Or would we all struggle back from the workplace, drop on the sofa because we’re tired, read newspapers and sleep early so we can wake up and go to work again?

There was a noise and I jumped. An auntie peeked into the classroom and said she had to lock up. I had been looking at the scribbles and art my class had made on their desks during Maths lessons, trying to remember all the details because this could be the last time I saw them, when I suddenly thought of something, and asked the old Malay auntie if she would go back to school with all her old classmates if she could.

“Yes. Of course!” she answered. “Those were some of the best times of my life. But they tore down my old secondary school a long time ago.” Her face became sad. She looked like my mother, every morning before going to work. “There’s nothing to go back to.”

***

After the auntie left me with a warning not to stay after five-thirty, I stood at the railing, watching the lonely parade square. Someday this would all disappear too. It would disappear no matter what I did.

I didn’t know what was coming in my future, but right then, I knew that my time here, in these corridors, was very, very important.

It was five-thirty.

“Just a bit longer,” I said aloud. Just a bit longer.