This is the writer's voice, New Fiction from the New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Triesman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of the writer's voice, we'll hear Rachel Hang read her story before the valley from the June 7th, 2021 issue of the magazine.

Hang is the author of the novel Suicide Club, which was a national bestseller in Singapore and has been translated into ten languages.

A new novel, The Great Reclamation, will be published next year.

Now here's Rachel Hang.

Before the valley, the candles were already lit when we've been arrived.

Her mistake, she'd missed the announcement at breakfast saying today's party would take place in the big hall instead of in the rec room.

What was wrong with the rec room, she mentally complained, while taking her place in the crowd.

Birthday celebrations were always in the rec room.

But catching a glimpse of potbellied cupol in his wheelchair, who he been softened.

Likely the change had been made because cupol was so popular and more residents than usual were expected to attend.

Typically, birthdays were local affairs.

Who he been was in ward 4, one of the 14 bedwards, which was a bad thing every day of the year except her birthday.

When it meant that she could count on at least 13 other people showing up to a party.

A relief since we've been had never been good at making friends, even before.

Before was the shorthand residents used for their lives prior to sunrise, barely.

Before wasn't talked about often, it felt unseemly somehow, self-indulgent to dwell on one's past life.

What did it matter, for example, that Cynthia from Ward 8 had been an actress who'd starred in the horror films that used to be made here in Singapore back in the 60s?

Or that has me from Ward 12 had been a lawyer and was even rumored to have owned his own firm?

They were all here now, sunrise valley residents won and the same.

Sure, Cynthia was in a two-better with a garden view, and has me had one of the few coveted and very expensive single wards.

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