Stan was raised by his grandmother, even though his mother was still alive. To be fair, his mom was great—beautiful and kind—but she worked as a singer with the local symphony, which meant she was rarely home. Her absence was why she and Stan’s father ended up separating. So, it was Grandma who raised him.
For as long as Stan could remember, whenever he approached his home—in one of those classic mid-century apartment buildings—he would look up to the fourth floor and immediately see the silhouette of his beloved grandma eagerly waiting for him at the window. And whenever she sent him off somewhere, she would always wave him goodbye from that same window, and he would always wave back.
But when Stan turned twenty-five, his grandmother passed away. Now, approaching his home and not seeing her familiar silhouette made him feel inexplicably sad and empty. The apartment felt void, even when his mother was there. They had long lost the ability to communicate or share their thoughts and interests. Even everyday matters remained unspoken, as if they were strangers.
A couple of months after she passed, Stan decided to move to another city. Fortunately, he had a good profession—IT specialists are always in demand. Through the internet, he quickly found a reputable company offering a high salary and even covering his rent.
His mother was happy about his decision, as she felt it was time for him to carve out his own path. He packed a few clothes and his grandmother’s favorite teacup as a keepsake. As Stan departed with his duffel bag on his shoulder, he looked up at the kitchen window one last time but saw no one. His mother didn’t even come to the window to see him off.
The taxi whisked him away to the train station, and soon he was relaxing in the upper bunk of the coach. The next morning, the train arrived on time, and Stan found his new office, completed the paperwork, and began searching for an apartment from a list he’d found online.
Wandering through the unfamiliar city using his phone’s GPS, he suddenly noticed a building reminiscent of his old home. All these buildings looked similar, but something about this one felt intensely familiar, perhaps the peculiar turquoise color of the window frames.
Stan drifted off his planned route and walked toward the building. He wanted to stand there and remember his grandmother. As he got closer, he instinctively looked up at what would have been his kitchen window and froze.
His head spun because in the fourth-floor kitchen window, he saw the silhouette of his grandmother. He recognized her immediately, and his heart leapt. Rationally, he knew it couldn’t be her, so he quickly shut his eyes, turned away, and slowly walked off. His mind told him it was another woman in that kitchen, but his heart screamed, “Stop! It’s her!”
Heeded by his heart, he turned back and looked up again.
There she was, still standing at the window.
Unable to resist, Stan dashed to the building and up to the fourth floor. The security lock was broken, just like back home, so he ran up the stairs and rang the doorbell.
A sleepy-looking young woman answered, surprised to see a stranger at her door. “Who are you here for?” she asked, puzzled.
“Uh, my grandmother,” Stan stammered, confused.
“Your grandmother?” The woman was puzzled, then called into the apartment, “Mom! Someone’s here for you!”
As the girl’s mother approached, she eyed the strange young man curiously.
Stan’s head was spinning even more now, convinced his heart was about to stop.
“Who’s asking for me?” the mother questioned, appearing just as sleepy.
The daughter chuckled. “He called you his grandmother.”
“Wait,” Stan whispered. “I didn’t mean her… I… Through your window… I saw my grandmother… I’m certain.”
“Are you high or something?” the daughter scoffed. “There’s no grandmother here. It’s just me and my mom!”
“Yeah, I see… Sorry, I made a mistake…” Overwhelmed, Stan took a step back, lowered his bag to the floor, and leaned against the wall to steady himself. “I’m sorry… I’ll just rest here for a moment and leave…”
The young woman began to close the door, but her mother intervened.
“Hey, young man,” she asked with concern, “are you feeling okay?”
“Fine…” he lied softly. “Don’t worry…”
“I’m betting your blood pressure’s sky-high. Your face is like a beetroot… Come on.” She gently took his arm and led him into the apartment, instructing her daughter, “Vera, grab his bag, bring it in! Fetch my blood pressure monitor, quickly!”
Wide-eyed, Vera followed her mother’s instructions.
The woman seated Stan on a couch and silently checked his blood pressure. Then, she resumed giving orders to her daughter, who continued observing, mouth agape.
“Get my medical bag. I’ve got injections in there…” She turned to Stan. “I’ll give you a shot, just to be safe, and we’ll call the paramedics…”
“No need for that!” he panicked. “I just arrived from the train… I don’t know anyone here… I haven’t even found an apartment yet…”
“Listen to my mom!” Vera chimed in. “She’s a doctor, got it?”
“Oh, you’re not from around here?” the woman asked.
Rather than replying verbally, he just nodded. Then he pleaded again, “Please, no paramedics… I start work tomorrow. It’s my first day… I just got hired…”
“Quiet!” she said as she administered the injection. “Have you had episodes like this before?”
“No,” he whispered.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five…”
“Any heart problems?”
“Honestly, I’m perfectly healthy…”
“Healthy, you say? Then why’s your blood pressure so high? 180 over 100 is no joke…”
“Probably stress.”
“What stress?”
“I told you, I saw my grandmother in your window. She was there, watching… me.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes. But she passed away. Two months ago. You don’t have any grandmothers living here?”
“You’re quite something…” Vera smiled. “I told you, it’s just me and my mom. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll check the kitchen.”
Vera cheerfully went to the kitchen and soon shouted back, alarmed, “Mom! What’s this?” She stood in the hallway, holding an unfamiliar teacup. “Where did this come from, Mom? We’ve never had cups like this!”
“Oh…” Stan smiled in confusion. “That’s my grandmother’s cup. I brought it… But it’s… It should be in my bag. I took it with me as a memento. This is some kind of mystery…”
“And where’s your bag?” The mother and daughter stared at him in disbelief.
“What do you mean? Right here…” He nodded toward his duffel bag by the door. “The cup should be in there…”
Together, they rummaged through the bag, but no second cup was found.
This incident remained inexplicable for the family. Particularly for Vera’s mom, who, just a couple of months later, became Stan’s mother-in-law. Indeed, it was some kind of mystery…
