There was an old woman in my neighborhood—frail, hunched, always wearing the same shawl. She coughed constantly, moved slowly, and, in a shaky voice, would ask, “Do you have a bit of food or some change for medicine?”
People avoided her. They crossed the street, whispered, even held their breath passing by. I hated that.
I sometimes slipped her a sandwich or a few dollars. She thanked me each time, like I’d given her back a little dignity. Maybe I helped simply because no one else did.
Then one morning I heard she died. No family. No one to hold her hand. The news struck me hard — I felt as if the world lost something it never realized it had.
Days later, a supposed relative asked me to go to her empty apartment. No bed, no table, not even a chair — just some worn rugs where she likely slept. But the walls … they were covered in stunning paintings. Vibrant with color and emotion.
I learned she had once been a respected painter. After her daughter died, she stopped painting, but kept the pieces her daughter loved. In her will, she left everything to me. I took them home and cried — not for their value, but because she chose me.
Those paintings still hang on my walls. I’ve never sold them. They remind me of her … and the love she held, long after the world stopped seeing her