For fifty years, a solitary woman lived on my building’s eighth floor, avoided by neighbors for her unpredictable demeanor. Last month, she passed away, and police asked me to visit her apartment. Inside, I was stunned to find walls covered with
photos of me—snapshots from childhood to now, taken from her balcony. It was unsettling yet poignant. Living in isolation, she had quietly documented my life, perhaps to feel connected. Even more surprising, she bequeathed me her apartment and the photo collection. This strange inheritance forced me to reflect on her lonely existence and my own life’s visibility. Her silent observance became a profound legacy, linking us in a way I never expected.
