The event that stands out in my memory happened one morning in 1983 when I was 14 years old.I was at home with my mother, getting ready for the afternoon session of school.
I was doing my homework when I heard raised voices.At first I thought nothing of it—customers in the motorcycle shop directly below us often became unruly and loud, but I soon realized this was different.
“Quick! Remove the motorcycles from the shop，” someone yelled.
Then a thick burning smell filled the air.When I opened the front door of our flat to investigate, a thick cloud of smoke, billowing up from the ground floor, greeted me.The motorcycle shop had caught fire.
My mum, who had been working in the kitchen, hurried to the living room.We rushed out of the door and along the corridor through the smoke.
We were heading towards the stairway at the far end of the corridor when Mum stopped in her tracks.She turned around and headed back the way we came.I had no idea what she was doing, but I followed suit.
Mum had suddenly remembered the Korean lady in her 70s who lived next door to us, who we called Makcik.Mum began banging on Makcik’s door, but to no avail.As the smoke thickened around us, I could see many of our neighbors—some still in their pyjamas—running for safety.
“She would have run for safety like everyone else！” I cried.
