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  • Mrs. Zakar is dead. My concern from the piling mail was confirmed.

    I hardly new Mrs Zakar, the old lady from the fifth floor. I only met her two years ago, when I became building manager. We had been living two floors apart for four years and our ways had never crossed.

    Even after, our encounters were rare. It was more a voice to me, high pitched, louder than needed, that called when she had some kind of problem, generally early morning, generally when she was feeling cold.

    I liked her, I tried to help her. I was feeling some kind of pride that the old, strange lady would call me "a good boy", that she even trusted me.
    Maybe because I could feel her loneliness. Or the simple need for attention.
    Maybe because she was eighty seven, my grandmother's age, and that I could care for her in a way I cannot for mine, thousands of kilometers away....
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