The hallway outside her apartment smelled faintly of dust and old paper. The officer beside me cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
The door creaked open, revealing a space frozen in time. Heavy curtains blocked out most of the daylight, casting long shadows over the room. The furniture was old but meticulously arranged, as if she had been expecting company that never came.
And then I saw them.
The walls—every inch of them—were covered in photos. Of me.
I took a shaky step forward, my pulse hammering in my ears. There I was, as a child, clutching a red balloon in the courtyard. As a teenager, sitting on the building’s front steps with my headphones on. Last year, carrying groceries home.
Hundreds of snapshots, taken from her eighth-floor balcony, chronicling my entire life.
“What the—” I whispered, running a hand over one of the frames.
The officer stood silently beside me, letting me process the sheer weight of it all. The woman—my neighbor, the one everyone avoided, the one I barely acknowledged—had been watching me for years.
The thought should have terrified me. But instead, an ache bloomed in my chest.
“She had no one,” the officer said, as if reading my mind. “No family, no friends. Just this… just you.”
It wasn’t obsession, I realized. It was loneliness.
The next revelation came later that evening. A lawyer contacted me with news: she had left me everything. The apartment. The furniture. And the photos.
I sat in my own tiny living room, staring at the will in disbelief.
She had been a stranger to me. A shadow in the building. A woman I passed in the hallway without a second thought.
Yet, somehow, I had meant something to her.
And now, she had made sure I wouldn’t forget her either.
