The Woman on the 8th Floor
For 50 years, she lived alone on the 8th floor—stern, distant, and avoided by neighbors. After her death last month, police asked me to accompany them to her apartment. I wasn’t ready for what I’d find.
Her home was dim, untouched, and meticulously arranged. But the walls—hundreds of photographs covered them, all of me. From childhood to adulthood, captured from her balcony over decades: playing, walking home, sitting on the steps. A lifetime documented in secret.
It should’ve felt invasive. But instead, I felt… sad. She had no family. No friends. Just me—from a distance.
Later, a lawyer told me she left me everything. Her apartment. The furniture. The photos.
We’d never spoken more than a few words. She was a stranger. And yet, I had unknowingly been her connection to the world—her quiet comfort.
Now, her legacy lives in snapshots of a life she never touched but somehow shared. And I’ll never walk past her door again without remembering how much she noticed.
