This woman had lived alone on the 8th floor of my building for 50 years. She rarely smiled, and the other neighbors tended to steer clear of her, as she had a reputation for being confrontational. Last month, she passed away, and the police came to my door, asking me to accompany them to her apartment.
As I stepped inside, a chill ran down my spine: her walls were covered with images of my life—photos of me taken from her balcony, capturing moments from my childhood to the present. It was unsettling yet perplexing. It became clear that she had no one else, and my existence had somehow provided her with companionship. Over the years, documenting my life had become her passion.
What surprised me even more was that she had bequeathed her apartment to me, along with the collection of photographs.