For fifty years, a woman lived on the eighth floor of my building. She never smiled and was always by herself. She died last month.
The cops came to my door and told me to go with them to her apartment. As soon as I walked in, I got chills because her house was like a museum of my childhood. I used to leave drawings on her door when I was little.
She never answered or talked to me, so I never knew if she saw them. But when we walked into her apartment, those drawings were all over the walls, nicely framed. I had put every crayon-marked page I had ever sent under her door there.
It was like a quiet gallery of memories I had forgotten. I found a small box in the corner of the living room. It was full of gifts, birthday cards, and thank-you notes I had sent to friends over the years.
She had also found a way to gather them. The police told me that she chose me as the person to talk to because I was the only one who had constantly tried to get in touch with her, even if it was just through a kid’s drawings. I realized that she hadn’t been uninterested in that quiet apartment; she had just loved in her own way.
She had watched me grow up from behind her closed door, always grateful for small acts of kindness and never asking for more. Her house wasn’t creepy; it was full of love that wasn’t said out loud. I told myself that day that I would never again underestimate the power of small, sincere acts.
