"That’s where you're wrong, Huat," Chen replied, scribbling into his book. "The numbers are the bones, but the Syair is the soul. It tells you where the wind is blowing."
Across from him, his friend Ah Huat snorted. "You and your poems, Chen. Just look at the 4D results from last week. History repeats itself, it doesn't rhyme."
The humid air of the Geylang coffee shop was thick with the scent of roasted beans and the hushed murmurs of the "Uncle" brigade. At Table 4, Chen sat with a tattered notebook and a cooling kopi-O, his eyes fixed on the digital screen of his phone. Today was Monday—a draw day.