“Me?” I said, bewildered. “For her?”
One nodded. “She listed you as her only contact.”
I was stunned. I wasn’t family. I wasn’t even a friend. I was a stranger. But they needed someone to enter her apartment, sort through her possessions, and handle some paperwork. I agreed.
The moment I stepped inside, a strange quiet settled over me. The air was still, almost frozen. I expected dust, clutter, and the musty smell of a life lived in solitude. But what I saw stopped me cold.
Her living room walls were completely covered in framed drawings.
Children’s drawings.
My drawings.
Continue reading…
