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At the foothill of Mount Emily, we pass by a row of shop houses that have witnessed the passage of time. In their neo-classical cornice details lie hidden stories of the lives of the former tenants - swing doors which once welcomed trading partners; peep holes through which fruitive eyes spotted strangers at their door; circular duct holes that vented spent fumes from the spice-laden kitchens. A few steps down the road, a house of worship rises from behind an ornate gateway. Together they stand on leafy hill where the perfume of nutmeg fruit once hung lightly in the air.