Every Sunday morning I water the pothos in the shared corridor outside unit 03-18 — my plant, technically, but corridors belong to everyone who passes, so it feels shared. The leaves have learned the rhythm; they perk before the can arrives, which is either science or my imagination.
The ritual takes four minutes: fill the can at the kitchen tap, walk barefoot to the door, pour slowly while the neighbour's radio plays old Cantonese ballads, wipe the saucer, return. Four minutes is nothing until you count the Sundays it has stacked into years.
Last month someone left a note on the pot — Nice plant. Thank you for green. — unsigned. I kept the note inside the saucer like a certificate. Corridors in Singapore are often treated as limbo space between private and public. This plant argues they can be both.
Today a boy stopped to touch a leaf gently while his grandmother waited for the lift. She said, Don't disturb uncle's plant. I said he could look. Looking is not disturbing. The boy nodded seriously and moved on. Another small story handed along the corridor, no fee required.
