For 50 years, a woman on the 8th floor of my building lived alone, feared for her cold demeanor and constant conflicts. After her death last month, police asked me to accompany them into her apartment. Inside, I was stunned—every wall was covered with photos of me, taken from her balcony over decades: as a child with a balloon, as a teen with headphones, even last year carrying groceries.

At first it felt eerie, but then I realized—it wasn’t obsession, it was loneliness. She had no family, no friends. Watching me gave her comfort. Later, I learned she’d left me everything in her will: her apartment, her belongings, and the photos.

I barely knew her. Yet to her, I had meant enough to fill her world—and now, she had ensured I would remember her too.