This woman had lived on the 8th floor of my building for 50 years. She was always alone, and never smiled. All the neighbors avoided her because she could start a fight at any moment.
Last month, she died. The police knocked on my door, telling me I should go up to her flat with them.
As I entered, I got chills: I found my entire life depicted on her walls—snaps of me on the street taken from her balcony, from when I was a kid until now. It felt creepy but also very confusing.
It turns out this woman had no one, and my presence somehow kept her company.
Photographing me became her hobby throughout the years.
What shocked me even more was that she had left me her flat, along with the collection of photos.
