On Tuesday morning, Maya opened an email from Luis, the building’s longtime superintendent, while waiting for her coffee to brew. The owner had scheduled what he called a “minor refresh” of the lobby before an open house: fresh paint, brighter bulbs, and, apparently, a replacement for the large rubber plant beside the mailboxes. Luis wrote with unusual candor. He understood that the lobby needed to look “intentional,” he said, but he hoped the plant could stay.

The plant was on borrowed time. Two leaves had browned, its pot leaned slightly toward the window, and Luis had been taking cuttings from healthier stems in the basement. Still, he argued, replacing it with a cheap imitation would erase something people recognized when they came home. He could make do with a new saucer, better light, and one more month to revive it. “If the owner says no, I’ll manage,” he added. “Just don’t take it personally if I sound stubborn.”