Mr. Arman – The Janitor - thescriptbook.net

A short story –

The hallway was always silent at 6 a.m. — just the soft hum of the heater, the distant moan of the elevator, and the low shuffle of Mr. Arman’s footsteps on the cold tile floor.

He never walked fast. He moved like someone who knew the building better than anyone else. Every turn, every creak in the floor, every door that never quite closed. For thirty years, this apartment building had been his second home — though no one thought of it that way.

To most tenants, he was just “the janitor.”

But Mr. Arman saw them all.

The single mother in 4A who cried herself to sleep some nights.

The old man in 6D who couldn’t walk to the grocery store anymore.

The boy in 3C who never wore socks in the winter.

Mr. Arman didn’t speak much. His back was curved, his face lined with quiet years. But every morning, before the city even stirred, he worked. And he watched. And he remembered.

One rainy Monday, a small umbrella leaned against the front lobby wall. No tag, no note.

The next day, it was gone. Taken by the woman from 2B, who had arrived soaked to the skin the day before. She never knew where it came from.

Another morning, a loaf of warm bread rested at the base of the old man’s door. No explanation.

A week later, a clean pair of children’s shoes appeared — perfectly sized — outside 3C.

The hallway cameras didn’t catch anything. But some neighbors began to wonder.

“Do you think it’s him?” someone whispered in the elevator.

“No. Why would a janitor care?”

But others… noticed. A quiet woman left a thank-you note in the lobby. A child gave a smile he’d never given before.

Mr. Arman always nodded politely. Never confirmed. Never denied.

He simply swept the floor, humming a tune only he seemed to know.

…

One morning in winter, the building smelled different. Less like polish and soap. More like… dust.

The floor hadn’t been mopped. The mailboxes hadn’t been sorted.

And the shoes at the door were wet.

Mr. Arman wasn’t there.

Tenants noticed. Not right away — but enough to feel it. The woman from 2B slipped on the lobby tile. The elevator’s groan lasted longer than usual. The boy in 3C walked barefoot again.

By the third day, someone knocked on the janitor’s closet.

No answer.

The building manager was called. The door was opened.

Inside was nothing but a small folding chair, a half-drunk cup of tea, and a faded photo of a younger Mr. Arman, standing next to a woman and a child, long gone.

He had passed away two nights before. Quietly. Alone.

…

At first, there was silence.

Then came whispers.

“I never even knew his first name.”

“He once helped me carry groceries up four flights.”

“He fixed my door without being asked.”

“He shoveled the steps before the storm hit.”

The list went on. Little things. Unnoticed, until they were gone.

That Sunday, someone placed a pair of new children’s shoes in front of 3C.

No one claimed them.

The week after, a loaf of bread appeared by 6D.

Then, a scarf, clean and warm, hung gently over the stair railing.

No one ever saw who left them.

But people had begun to notice. Not just the kindness, but the man who had started it.

And slowly, the building came to life — not just with lights and footsteps, but with unseen hands, leaving quiet things behind.

…

Years passed. The hallway changed. New families moved in. Children grew taller. Names on doors came and went.

But still, sometimes —

A fresh umbrella would appear on a rainy day.

Or shoes would be found at a doorstep in the perfect size.

Or someone would whisper a soft thank you to no one at all.

And every once in a while, if you came down just before sunrise and listened very closely, you might hear a soft shuffle. The gentle hum of a tune with no words.

Just echoes.

Left by the man who once swept the floors, but ended up leaving something far more lasting.

…