For six months—

every Monday morning—

there was a plant outside my apartment.

Always small.

Always healthy.

Always different.

Succulent.

Peace lily.

Tiny herbs.

Flowering pots.

Nothing expensive.

But clearly chosen.

At first I assumed delivery mistake.

I asked the building group chat.

Nothing.

I asked security.

No answer.

No cameras in that hallway.

After the third week—

I stopped questioning.

I just brought them inside.

Watered them.

Put them near the window.

Strangely—

I started looking forward to Mondays.

Life had become repetitive.

Work.

Food.

Sleep.

Repeat.

The plants became something small to notice.

Sometimes there was no reason.

I’d come home tired—

see green leaves—

and feel better.

Ridiculous.

But true.

I never told anyone.

Months passed.

Friends visited.

They joked.

“Secret admirer?”

I laughed.

But honestly—

I wondered.

Then one Monday—

nothing.

I opened my door.

Empty floor.

I waited.

Tuesday.

Nothing.

Wednesday.

Nothing.

Unexpectedly—

I felt disappointed.

I looked at the windowsill.

Twenty-three plants.

Twenty-three Mondays.

And suddenly I realized—

I had gotten used to somebody thinking about me.

That feeling stayed all week.

Saturday—

I finally asked neighbors.

Nobody knew.

Until an older man downstairs looked confused.

“You mean Mrs. Chan?”

I blinked.

“Who?”

He pointed upward.

Small apartment.

End of hall.

I recognized the door.

I had seen an older woman once or twice.

Quiet.

Always carrying grocery bags.

We never talked.

He said—

“She used to leave plants.”

Used to.

I knocked.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

Finally another neighbor opened.

“She’s at her daughter’s place.”

I asked carefully—

“Did she… leave plants?”

The woman smiled.

“Oh.”

Then laughed.

“She noticed you.”

I frowned.

Apparently—

months earlier—

I moved in during a difficult period.

Long hours.

Always looked exhausted.

Never decorated.

Never talked.

One day Mrs. Chan asked if I liked plants.

I apparently answered—

without stopping—

“My grandmother loved them.”

Then walked away.

I didn’t even remember saying it.

The neighbor smiled.

“She thought you looked lonely.”

I stood quietly.

She continued.

Mrs. Chan had a habit.

Whenever somebody seemed sad—

she gave them plants.

Not flowers.

Plants.

Because flowers disappear.

Plants ask you to come back.

That sentence stayed.

Plants ask you to come back.

The neighbor smiled.

“She said people take better care of themselves when something depends on them.”

I looked toward my apartment.

Twenty-three plants.

I suddenly remembered things.

Days I almost skipped dinner—

but watered them.

Days I opened curtains.

Days I came home earlier.

Days I noticed new leaves.

I thought I kept plants alive.

Maybe they kept routine alive.

A week later—

Mrs. Chan returned.

I caught her carrying groceries.

She looked surprised seeing me.

I thanked her.

She immediately looked embarrassed.

“It wasn’t a big thing.”

I laughed.

“Twenty-three Mondays?”

She shrugged.

“You looked like someone who forgot to go home.”

I froze.

That sentence landed somewhere uncomfortable.

Because she was right.

Work became everything.

Home became sleeping.

She smiled.

Then looked at my hands.

“You repotted the lavender.”

I blinked.

She remembered.

I asked—

“Why stop?”

She smiled.

“Because I wanted to see if you’d knock.”

I laughed.

“You tested me?”

She smiled.

“No.”

Then quietly—

“I wanted to know if somebody was finally waiting for something.”

Before leaving—

she handed me a tiny empty pot.

No plant.

Just soil.

I looked confused.

She smiled.

“Your turn.”

That Monday—

I placed a small plant outside another apartment.

No note.

No name.

Just because.

And every Monday now—

I water mine first.

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If someone quietly changed your routine for the better… would you tell them?