A woman lived on the 8th floor of my building for 50 years. She kept to herself and rarely interacted with anyone. Last month, she peacefully passed away. Soon after, the authorities contacted me and asked if I could accompany them to her apartment, as my name had been mentioned in her records. As I stepped inside, I was deeply moved: my entire childhood was displayed across her walls.
Every corner of her home featured framed drawings I had created as a child—little doodles I used to leave near her door on my way to school. I often placed small flowers under her welcome mat, hoping they might brighten her day. I never knew whether she noticed them until that moment.
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