For fifty years, a woman lived alone on the eighth floor of my building. Her name was Mrs. Delaney, though most people just called her the old woman upstairs. She was a solitary figure, rarely seen, never smiling. Children whispered stories about her being a witch. Adults avoided eye contact. Her presence was more ghost than neighbor—an unspoken fixture of our building.

Then last month, she died.

There was no funeral, no family. Just flashing lights, a coroner’s van, and the dull echo of rumors in the stairwell. A few days later, two police officers knocked on my door. They explained they’d been going through her belongings and found something that required my attention. Puzzled, I followed them up the eight flights of stairs to her apartment—somehow, taking the elevator didn’t feel right.

The moment I stepped inside, a cold shiver ran through me. It wasn’t just the stale air or the scent of forgotten time—it was the walls. Every inch of them was covered in photographs. Hundreds, maybe thousands. And they were all of me.

Me as a child, playing in the courtyard. Me walking to school. Me laughing with friends, bringing groceries home, sitting at the café across the street. Candid moments, captured from above—taken from her balcony. My entire life, documented in silence.

I stood frozen, overwhelmed and unnerved. Why me? Why had she watched me for decades? The officers were silent too, unsure whether this was the beginning of a criminal investigation or something else entirely.

But then, they handed me a letter—sealed and yellowing at the edges.

In shaky handwriting, it began:

“You don’t know me, but I’ve known you your whole life. Watching you gave my life meaning when I had none. I had no family, no children, no one who noticed if I was here or not. But I noticed you. You reminded me what hope looked like. What laughter sounded like. In a way, you saved me.”

It went on to explain that she had suffered from severe agoraphobia for most of her life. The idea of being among people terrified her. But through her window, she found a way to feel human again—by observing mine. She never intended to frighten or invade, only to witness something beautiful in a world she couldn’t touch.

And then came the final shock: she had left me her apartment, her savings, and the photo archive. Everything she owned.

I stood in that quiet apartment for a long time, surrounded by fragments of my own life, refracted through the lens of someone else’s solitude. I didn’t know how to feel. Gratitude? Pity? Grief? Maybe all of it.

It’s been a month now. I haven’t taken down the photographs.

Somehow, in the eerie quiet of her space, I’ve come to understand something: even the most forgotten souls still yearn for connection. Mrs. Delaney wasn’t a ghost. She was a witness. And now, in a strange way, a part of me.