It was a game when we were children. "Your Grandmother has the Third Eye," Mum used to confide, when we young enough to believe that all her words were gospel. "She can see ghosts."

"Everywhere?" my brother would always ask, already sceptical. He would grow up to become a scientist, to my Chinese parents' veiled disappointment, a doctor in qualification only.

"Sometimes people leave the world with unfinished business," Mum would reply, pitching her voice low, pretending to look left and right. We would shiver in delighted horror.

"I don't have the Third Eye," I would murmur, forever made resentful at having been born normal. Thanks to our childhood fascination with ghost stories, I spent nearly a decade of my life pathologically afraid of sleeping against a window with my neck exposed, after our oldest cousin told us a 'true story' about a cursed strangler's hand that crept through open windows to murder the unsuspecting.

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