Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Her name was Ruth, I think, or something like that. We didn’t talk much. I used to help her when she came home from the library with her cart full of books; she liked physics, and biology, and quantum entanglement. Heady stuff, way beyond me. She’d stop in the hall where my cat would come to greet us. Boris usually made strange, but not with her. She’d recite some poem in a language I couldn’t understand, and Boris would purr, then we’d continue upstairs to her apartment where she’d thank me and disappear inside.
She disappeared for good a few weeks ago now.
Her granddaughter seems to have moved into her old place. She’s got her grandmother’s strange taste in books, but she carries them up herself, and her penchant for cryptic poems which she shares with Boris too, who likes her just fine.
The resemblance is uncanny.