A woman lived on the 8th floor of my apartment building for 50 years. She was always alone and never smiled 👇

When I entered, I got chills: I found all my childhood photos. Every birthday, every school trip, even moments I didn’t remember being photographed. At first, I thought it was a strange coincidence—but then I saw boxes labeled with my name.

Inside were pieces of my life I had lost years ago—my first shoes, my school notebooks, even a lock of my hair from when I was a baby. My parents had never told me these things were missing.

Then, I noticed something even darker: hundreds of diaries stacked against the wall. I opened one, and my blood froze. Page after page, she had written about me—where I went, what I wore, who I spoke to. Every single day of my life had been documented in her shaky handwriting.

At the very end of the last diary, the writing changed. The words were trembling, desperate:

“He doesn’t know yet, but soon he will. He belongs to me. He always has. When I am gone, he will finally come home.”

I dropped the book, shaking. That’s when the police officer whispered, “You should see the other room.”

I stepped inside, and my knees nearly gave out. The entire room was filled with mannequins—dressed in clothes identical to mine, arranged as if they were living my life. One mannequin was seated at a table, another was lying on a bed, and one… was hanging from the ceiling with a rope.

Pinned to the wall above it was a note in her handwriting:

“This is how it ends for him. This is how he will come to me.”