For more than fifty years, she lived just one floor above me. Always quiet. Always alone. No small talk in the hallway, no holiday decorations on her door, no signs of visitors.
She wasn’t rude—just invisible. One of those elderly neighbors you nod to politely, but never really know. We all assumed she preferred to be left alone.
Her name was Margaret, though hardly anyone remembered that. Over the decades, neighbors came and went, children grew up, families moved in, and yet she remained—a still figure in the backdrop of our building’s ever-changing story. She was simply there, like the mailboxes or the faded numbers on the elevator buttons. Familiar but forgotten.
Then, last month, she died.
