This woman, who lived alone on the 8th floor of my building for 50 years, was known for her stern demeanor and tendency to provoke conflicts, causing neighbors to avoid her. After her death last month, the police asked me to accompany them to her apartment.

What I discovered inside was both chilling and bewildering: her walls were covered with photos of me, taken from her balcony over the years, capturing moments from my childhood to the present. It was unsettling yet oddly poignant.

I later learned that she had no family or friends, and observing me had become her way of finding solace. Even more surprising, she left me her apartment and the entire collection of photos in her will, leaving me to grapple with this unexpected and complex legacy.

The hallway outside her apartment smelled faintly of dust and old paper. The officer beside me cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

The door creaked open, revealing a space frozen in time. Heavy curtains blocked out most of the daylight, casting long shadows over the room. The furniture was old but meticulously arranged, as if she had been expecting company that never came.

And then I saw them.

The walls—every inch of them—were covered in photos. Of me.

I took a shaky step forward, my pulse hammering in my ears. There I was, as a child, clutching a red balloon in the courtyard. As a teenager, sitting on the building’s front steps with my headphones on. Last year, carrying groceries home.

Hundreds of snapshots, taken from her eighth-floor balcony, chronicling my entire life.

“What the—” I whispered, running a hand over one of the frames.

The officer stood silently beside me, letting me process the sheer weight of it all. The woman—my neighbor, the one everyone avoided, the one I barely acknowledged—had been watching me for years.

The thought should have terrified me. But instead, an ache bloomed in my chest.