The room was empty except for the old furniture. But there were dozens, hundreds of photographs hanging on the walls. I approached and was speechless. It was me in all those photos.
Me at graduation. Me at the barracks. Me with my parents at the villa. Me with my wife at the civil service. Even me at the store next door, just a few years ago.
Who had photographed me? How? A shiver ran through my body.
“God…” I whispered.
The police looked at me in confusion.
“Did you know her?”
“No! I’ve never spoken to him…”
I approached the desk. There was a thick notebook. My name was written on the cover. I took it. Inside, in neat, dated handwriting, my entire life was described. Down to the smallest detail.
“Today he bought more bread from the bakery across the street. He likes it when it’s still warm…”
“Today he came home from work feeling thoughtful and sad…”
“Today he looked out the window and almost saw me…”
I closed my eyes. My heart was pounding. It was impossible.
Suddenly, there was a dull noise from the next room. We jumped. The police officers looked at each other and went to check. I stood in the hallway, my notebook clutched to me.
And then I heard a soft voice behind me:
“He came anyway…”
I turned around. She was standing by the window. The woman. Pale, transparent, but alive. She was looking straight into my eyes and… smiling.
The Secret of Diaries
I froze. The woman was a ghost, a shadow, but her gaze was alive. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment her whole life.
The police are back.
“There’s no one here,” said one of them, “and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I tried to speak, but the words got jumbled:
“She… is standing here!”
They looked at each other and shrugged. The room seemed empty. But she whispered again:
“They can’t see me. Only you.”
My hands were shaking. She took a step toward me, her trembling figure like a reflection in the water.
“Why me?” I barely managed to say.
“Because I lived your life,” she replied.
The police officers finished their check and left, leaving me alone.
“What does that mean?” I shouted. “Why do you have my photos, my recordings?!”
She laughed. Her laughter was loud, like a young woman’s. She gestured, and a picture frame fell on my head.
“You were always funny,” she said softly, “even when you were angry.”
