Neighbors avoided this woman, who lived alone on the eighth level of my building for fifty years, because of her harsh personality and propensity to start arguments. The cops invited me to go to her residence after she passed away last month. What I saw inside was both frightening and confusing: pictures of me that had been taken from her balcony over the years, documenting my early years to the present, were arranged on her walls. It was strangely moving and unnerving.
Later on, I found out that she had no friends or family and that watching me had been her coping mechanism. She gave me her apartment and the complete collection of pictures in her will, which was even more shocking. I now have to deal with this unexpected and complicated legacy.
The scent of dust and old paper wafted across the hallway outside her flat. Uncomfortably, the officer next to me cleared his throat.
He said, “Are you prepared?”
No, I wasn’t. I still nodded, though.
The door squeaked open, revealing a momentary room. The room was filled with deep shadows as the majority of the daylight was filtered off by heavy curtains. Old but carefully placed, the furnishings suggested she had been waiting for guests that never arrived.
I suddenly caught sight of them.
Every square inch of the walls was covered in photographs. Of myself.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I stumbled forward. In the courtyard, there I was, a kid, holding a red balloon. I was a teenager sitting on the front steps of the building wearing headphones. Bringing home groceries last year.
My entire existence was documented by hundreds of photos taken from her balcony on the eighth floor.
“What the—” Running a hand over one of the frames, I said.
In silence, the officer stood next to me, allowing me to take in the enormity of the situation. The woman had been observing me for years; she was my neighbor, the person whom everyone shunned, and the one that I hardly acknowledged.
I should have shuddered at the concept. Instead, though, a pain blossomed in my chest.
As if reading my thoughts, the officer stated, “She had no one.” “Neither friends nor family.” Only this… only you.
I understood that it wasn’t obsession. Loneliness was the cause.
Later that night came the second surprise. I received a call from a lawyer who informed me that she had left me everything. The flat. the furnishings. and the pictures.
Staring at the will in shock, I sat in my own small living room.
I hadn’t known her at all. A shadow within the structure. I didn’t think twice about the woman I walked past in the corridor.
But in some way, I had had some significance for her.
She had now ensured that I wouldn’t forget her either.
