The Last Trishaw Ride

“Grandpa, the trishaw’s talking again!” Xiao Bin Bin yanked his grandfather’s sleeve, eyes wide.

Grandpa Lim chuckled, adjusting his straw hat. “Not talking, coughing . She’s just tired, like an old dog after a long walk.”

But Xiao Bin Bin was sure he’d heard it—a soft, wheezing voice whisper from beneath the red-painted frame: “Don’t leave me behind.”

It was the summer the trishaws vanished. One by one, George Town’s colorful three-wheelers disappeared—replaced by silent scooters and sleek delivery apps. Only Grandpa Lim’s trishaw remained, its once-bright paint chipped like a sun-cracked sidewalk, its bell rusted but still cheerful when rung.

Xiao Bin Bin had planned to spend his vacation gaming with Eddy and racing kites with Anna at the beach. But when Grandpa Lim twisted his ankle carrying crates for Lily X’s flower stall, Xiao Bin Bin stepped in. “I’ll help,” he said, surprising even himself.

So began the last ride.

Each morning, Xiao Bin Bin pedaled the creaky trishaw through George Town’s winding streets, Grandpa perched proudly on the passenger seat like a sea captain on a weathered deck. They delivered jasmine garlands to Lily N’s temple, spicy roti canai to Emma’s café, and fresh mangosteens to Bell’s fruit cart near the old clock tower.

And with every stop, Grandpa told stories.

“This trishaw carried your mother to school every day,” he said one afternoon, stroking the worn leather seat. “She used to sing so loud, birds would fly off the wires!”

Xiao Bin Bin grinned. “Mom? Singing?”

“Like a nightingale!” Grandpa winked. “And this bell—ding-ding! —that’s what woke you up every birthday morning. I’d ring it outside your window with a cake.”

Xiao Bin Bin reached out and rang the bell. The sound bounced off the shophouses, bright and clear, like laughter skipping down the lane.

At Pye’s bookshop, they found Hyuga sketching in his notebook. “You’re keeping history alive,” he said, pointing at the trishaw. “My granddad had one too. He called it his ‘flying turtle.’”

“Flying?” Xiao Bin Bin laughed. “This thing moves slower than a snail!”

“But it remembers everything,” Hyuga whispered. “Look at the scratches. That one? Probably from monsoon rain. That dent? Maybe a runaway goat!”

Xiao Bin Bin stared at the trishaw with new eyes. It wasn’t just metal and wood—it was a map of memories.

Then came the day the city announced: All remaining trishaws must be retired by Friday. A shiny notice was taped to the lamppost near Alexis’s ice cream cart.

“No,” Xiao Bin Bin whispered. His chest felt tight.

Grandpa patted his shoulder. “Everything has an end, anak . Even good things.”

That night, Xiao Bin Bin couldn’t sleep. He crept downstairs, flashlight in hand, and tiptoed to the trishaw parked under the banyan tree. He traced the faded dragon painted along the side—its wings cracked, its eyes still fierce.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispered.

An idea sparked.

By sunrise, Xiao Bin Bin had rallied his friends. Eddy brought duct tape and glitter. Anna gathered flowers. Lily X donated ribbons. Emma baked banana muffins for energy. Bell brought mango slices for strength. Even quiet Hyuga designed a banner: THE LAST TRISHAW RIDE – ONE FINAL TOUR!

They cleaned the trishaw until it gleamed. They fixed the wobbly wheel (with help from Alexis’s mechanic cousin). They strung fairy lights along the frame and tied bells to the handlebars.

On Friday morning, the whole neighborhood gathered.

Grandpa Lim sat tall, wearing his best batik shirt. Xiao Bin Bin gripped the pedals, heart pounding.

“Where to?” he asked.

Grandpa smiled. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

They rolled through George Town like a parade. Kids waved from windows. Old ladies tossed petals. Dogs barked in rhythm. At every stop, someone shared a memory: “My wedding bouquet came in that trishaw!” “My first job interview—I arrived in style!” “My daughter took her first ride at three days old!”

Even the mayor paused his scooter to salute them.

When they reached the seaside promenade, the sun hung low, painting the sky in tangerine and rose. Xiao Bin Bin stopped the trishaw and hopped off. He opened the back panel—where packages usually went—and pulled out a small wooden box.

Inside was a single seedling—a young frangipani tree.

“This is for you,” Xiao Bin Bin said, placing it gently in the trishaw’s cargo space. “So you’re never really gone.”

Grandpa blinked fast, then nodded.

That night, the trishaw was moved to the community garden, where it became a bench shaded by bougainvillea. The seedling grew beside it, reaching for the sun.

Years later, when children asked about the old trishaw with the smiling dragon, Xiao Bin Bin—who now ran his own delivery service on a quiet electric tricycle—would say:

“She didn’t retire. She just changed gears.”

And if you listen closely on warm evenings, when the breeze rustles the frangipani leaves, you might still hear a faint ding-ding , like a memory waving hello.