For fifty years, a woman lived alone on the eighth floor of my building. She was reclusive and rarely interacted with anyone. Most neighbors kept their distance, wary of her mood swings. Last month, after she passed away, police came to my door and asked me to accompany them to her apartment.
When I entered, a chill went through me. Her walls were covered with photographs—of me. Pictures taken from her balcony, spanning my entire life, from childhood to adulthood. It was surreal and unsettling.
Somehow, in her loneliness, she had silently followed my life, perhaps using those moments to feel connected. Even more shocking was the discovery that she had left me her apartment and the collection of photos.
It was an unusual inheritance, forcing me to reflect on her quiet existence and the strange bond she had formed with mine. In the end, her solitude left a mark on my life I never saw coming.
