This woman lived alone on the eighth level of my building for fifty years. Her neighbors avoided her because of her harsh personality and propensity to start arguments. I was invited to go to her residence by the police after she passed away last month. Inside, I saw something both scary and confusing: pictures of me from her balcony over the years, from my early years to the present, were plastered on her walls. It was disturbing, but strangely moving.
She had no friends or family, I found out later, and watching me had been her comfort. I was forced to deal with this unexpected and complicated inheritance after she gave me her apartment and the complete collection of photographs in her will, which was even more shocking.
There was a slight smell of dust and old paper in the hallway outside her apartment. The officer next to me shifted uneasily and cleared his throat.
“Are you prepared?” he inquired.
I wasn’t. Nevertheless, I nodded.
A moment in time was revealed as the door creaked open. The room was covered in deep shadows as a result of the heavy curtains blocking out most of the brightness. Although the furniture was old, it was carefully placed, as though she had been waiting for guests that never arrived.
Then I caught sight of them.
Every inch of the walls was covered with pictures. of myself.
With my heart pounding in my ears, I stumbled forward. There I was in the courtyard as a kid, holding a crimson balloon. I wore headphones when I sat on the front steps of the building as a teenager. Bringing groceries home last year.
Hundreds of photos, taken from her balcony on the eighth story, documenting my life.
“What the—” I ran a palm over one of the frames and said.
The officer stood quietly next to me, allowing me to take in the enormity of everything. For years, the woman who lived next door, whom everyone shunned, and whom I seldom acknowledged, had been observing me.
I should have been frightened by the concept. Instead, though, my chest began to ache.
The cop, who seemed to understand my thoughts, stated, “She had no one.” “No friends, no family. Just you, just this.
I recognized it wasn’t obsession. It was a sense of isolation.
Later that night, the next revelation was made. I received word from a lawyer that she had given me everything. The apartment. The furnishings. as well as the pictures.
I sat in my own small living room, looking incredulously at the will.
I had never heard of her before. The building’s shadow. I walked past a woman in the corridor without giving her any attention.
But in some way, I had touched her.
She had now certain that I would also remember her.