a tall fourteen-storey Indian city apartment block seen straight on from across a narrow street at dusk, its flat rectangular slab face filling the frame from the pavement to the roofline — a flat-fronted rectangular building, NOT round, NOT a tower, NOT a courtyard. Crowded tightly on both left and right by more apartment blocks exactly like it, pressed close with barely a gap between them, so it is plainly one of many in a dense city and not special in any way. No open ground, no horizon, no empty sky at the sides. Weathered beige-grey concrete darkened in patches by rain. Small balconies with plain iron grille railings — a few with a potted tulsi or a struggling marigold, a few with washing on a line, most of them bare. Warm golden light spills from the windows, making a vast grid of glowing rectangles against the grey, no one window distinguishable from any other. At the base, a narrow entrance, a few parked scooters, and one thin scrubby dusty municipal tree with a bare crooked trunk in a circle of cracked pavement. Completely deserted — not a single person anywhere in the frame