“It is the last time I will see you,” said the old woman from her armchair. It was easy to believe. Many wrinkles and cracks mapped the bygone path of her life onto her paper dry skin, so clear for everyone to see. This special aura surrounded her that was inherent of all things and people that have been around for a long time.

The woman must have noticed my hesitation, because she sat up, cobweb hair falling over her temples as she bent forward to look at me. “Don’t be sad, love. People like me know when their time has come.”

I wasn’t sad for her. “I understand.”

Whether she believed me or not, after a moment, she leaned back again, already panting from the effort. I could hear it, hear the air rustle in her old lungs. “Now where did we stop last time, remind me?”

We resumed, me sitting on the thick wool carpet, legs crossed, her telling the story. Her story. I listened closely, trying to remember every part as well as I could, while my mind drifted off, forming a stage and curtains out of clouds.

I had spent most of my summer here, crammed into the sticky apartment that smelled of cats. They had left her already, her cats, now waiting for her to follow. The doctors said she had many more years, but they did not know. Did not understand. It was always like this. Sometimes it dragged out over months, sometimes it came in surprise over night, but I could always hear the life fading out of their voices.

“And then came the day,” the old woman finished, “when a formidable youngling appeared at my door and asked, may I enter? And, may I ask you a question? And had I known you back then I had not kept the door chain locked of course, but there was I, alone, and so I said, you may ask from outside door.”

She chuckled. So faint already.

“I remember,” I said, smiling.

“But do not come back next week. You will not find me here.”

“I know.”

A long look from her tired eyes. Her glasses had broken a while ago, so she could barely see me.

“I have seen and done many things in my life, as you well know. After all of it, one becomes alone. That is the worst that has happened to me. Come here.”

I got up. The woman held out her hand and put it on my heart. The touch was cold, a corpse’s hand almost.

“You now carry my story in you.” Her voice grew quiet, almost scared. “Promise that you keep it. Promise that you won’t forget.”

I nodded. I kept all of their stories in me, every singe life that was given to me.

Thank you, said the old woman, without saying it. Only looked at me, withdrawing her hand.

There was no need for more words than the thousands that she had already spoken. Her dreams were unveiled now. Wounds had grown into scars. That had to be nice, I thought, to be able to put all the things behind. Maybe, one day, so would I.

As I turned to leave, she grew restless, fingers shaking on the armrests of her chair. “There is one thing I always wondered about, is why you came here in the first place. You never talk about yourself.”

I simply answered, “there’s nothing worth mentioning.” Then I went away.