For years, the woman on the 8th floor was just “the quiet lady upstairs.” She rarely spoke, avoided eye contact, and lived alone. When she passed away last month, I was shocked when police said my name was listed as her emergency contact. I barely knew her — or so I thought.

Inside her apartment, the walls were covered with framed crayon drawings. They were mine — the little pictures I used to leave at her door as a child, thinking she ignored them. In a box, I found every card, note, and holiday message I had ever made.

She hadn’t been cold — just silent, but deeply grateful. I was the only person who ever showed her kindness, and she never forgot.