Pooja had moved into the old PG three months ago. The building was a crumbling sixty-year-old structure in a quiet corner of the city, with peeling paint, narrow staircases, and a constant damp smell that never left the corridors. She was twenty-four, worked long shifts at a call centre, and preferred the cheap rent and the solitude. Most of the other girls left early in the morning and returned late. The ground floor was mostly empty after dark. Ramesh was the sweeper. Sixty years old, thin, grey hair combed back with oil, always in the same faded blue shirt and lungi. He carried a big ring of keys that jingled when he walked. He had keys to every floor, every common bathroom, every water tank room. The landlord trusted him completely.

At first he only swept the stairs and collected the garbage. Then one evening the water stopped. Pooja went downstairs with her empty bucket. Ramesh was sitting on the steps smoking a beedi.