That Grandma i still miss her...

n 2014, I was 19 years old, working part-time at a small convenience store in a quiet district. I did eight-hour shifts every day, usually wrapping up around 10 p.m. Life was mechanical—work, walk home, sleep, repeat. I didn’t know anyone in the city. I had moved to a foreign country alone, chasing a better life. No family. No friends. Just survival.

One night, while walking home after my shift, I saw her.

An old woman, sitting cross-legged on the footpath near an overpass, right beside a flickering streetlamp. She was small, fragile-looking, wrapped in a dusty blue shawl. What struck me the most was that she was eating tacos. Slowly. Carefully. Like it was the only thing she’d eaten all day. She looked content, even peaceful.

I assumed she was homeless. I didn’t stop. Just kept walking.

But the next night, she was there again.

And again. And again. For the next two months, she sat in the exact same spot every single night, always with a taco in her hand, always with that faint, eerie smile. I never spoke to her. Never even made eye contact. But I noticed her. Always noticed her. I started to feel… connected to her somehow. Not out of sympathy—out of something stranger. Like we were orbiting each other.

Then one day, something shifted inside me. I was walking home, exhausted, and I thought—maybe I could help her. Take her in. Let her live out her remaining days in peace, under a roof, with a warm bed. I didn’t have much, but it was better than a sidewalk.

That night, I went to her spot. But she was gone.

I stood there for minutes, confused. She’d never missed a night. I told myself maybe she left early.

Next night—still gone.

Third night—I started asking people nearby. No one had ever noticed her. Not even the vendor whose cart was just a few feet away every evening.

I called the police.

“I’ve been working here nearly a year,” I said. “There’s been an old woman sitting outside every night for two months. She eats tacos, just sits there. Now she’s vanished.”

The officer sounded mildly confused. “Why are you trying to find her?”

“I… I wanted to help her. Bring her into my home. I just—felt like I needed to.”

They said they’d look into it. But I could tell they didn’t take it seriously.

Weeks passed. Then a month.

I tried to let it go.

---

It was a Tuesday. I had just finished my shift. I was exhausted, feverish, and too sick to get food. I remember thinking: I’m starving. I can’t even make it to the store.

I dragged myself back to my apartment, collapsed on the bed still in my uniform. I felt weak—too weak to eat, too weak to think.

Then I heard it.

Knock. Knock.

It was 10 a.m.

I froze. It was too early for visitors. No deliveries. I pulled myself up, half-dazed, and looked through the peephole.

There was no one there.

But sitting right in the center of my doormat… was a single taco.

Wrapped in a napkin. Still warm.

I didn’t move for what felt like a full minute. My mind raced back to her—to the woman I hadn’t seen in over a month. My heart started pounding. I opened the door slowly. The hallway was empty.

I stepped out, looked around.

Nothing. No sound. No sign.

I grabbed the taco with trembling hands and stepped back inside. I didn’t eat it. I couldn’t. I just stared at it like it was some kind of offering—or a warning.

That’s when the dreams started.

I saw her. In alleyways. Behind bus stops. Watching me from across the street, always half-hidden in shadow. In every dream, she was eating slowly. Always tacos. And always smiling that too-calm smile. I could hear the chewing. Wet. Measured. Endless.

After that, things got worse.

I started hearing the knocking at random hours. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Sometimes when I was in the shower. But there was never anyone there. Just the sound. And once or twice, another taco on my doorstep—perfectly placed.

I started losing sleep. I moved apartments. Twice.

Nothing helped.

Months later, the police finally called back.

“Mr. Leo?”

“Yeah, this is Leo.”

“We’d like you to come down to the station. We have something you need to see.”

At the station, they pulled out a folder. Inside were stills from street surveillance.

They showed me walking home late at night.

But in the background—almost always—was the old woman.

Behind me. Watching.

What shook me the most wasn’t that she was there. It was when.

The earliest photo was dated a week before I ever noticed her for the first time.

I had walked past her every night for a week… and never saw her.

And then another thing. The officer said: “We searched for her. No shelters. No ID. No death records. But in every frame she appears in… you’re always present. Never anyone else.”

“Are you saying she’s following me?” I asked, voice dry.

The cop paused. “No, Mr. Leo. We’re saying she may only exist around you.”