For as long as I could remember, a woman lived on the 8th floor of my building. She had been there for fifty years, always alone, always quiet, and never smiling. Most neighbors barely noticed her, and those who did whispered about her solitude.Last month, she passed away.
The police came to my door one evening and asked if I could accompany them to her apartment. I hesitated but followed.as the door creaked open, I stepped into a space that felt strangely familiar. My chest tightened, and a chill ran down my spine. The walls were covered with photographs, neatly framed and carefully placed.
