There was an elderly woman in my neighborhood who everyone avoided—frail, wrapped in the same shawl every day, always asking softly for a little food or money for medicine. People crossed the street to avoid her, whispering like she carried something contagious. I never understood why. Whenever I handed her a sandwich or a few dollars, the way she thanked me felt like I’d given her back a small piece of dignity no one else bothered to see.

One day, I learned she had passed away alone, with no family by her side. The news hit me unexpectedly hard, leaving a strange heaviness in my chest. A few days later, a man claiming to be her distant relative called and asked me to visit her apartment. I assumed he needed help sorting through her belongings, but when I stepped inside, I was stunned. The place was almost empty—no furniture, just old rugs on the floor.

But the walls… the walls were covered in breathtaking paintings. Colors that felt alive, scenes full of emotion and depth. Her relative explained that she had once been a renowned painter, admired in the art world. After her daughter died, she stopped painting and slowly disappeared into her grief. She kept only the pieces her daughter had loved, even as her own life fell apart.

Then came the part that shook me to my core: she had left all the paintings to me in her will. I took them home and cried—not because of their value, but because she chose me. Those paintings still hang on my walls, and I’ve never sold a single one. They remind me of her, and of the love and beauty she carried long after the world stopped seeing her.