Maria's necklace

Maria, who lived upstairs, was over ninety years old. One day, something that looked like a doorbell began to glow on her chest. She carefully cleaned it, treating it like a precious badge, and proudly wore it around her neck. I think it must have been after her husband Tony passed away.

“It’s an alarm. If I collapse, the button automatically gets pressed, and someone will be contacted to come save me,” 

she explained proudly about the necklace. On days when she felt down, she would say with doubt, 

"If something happens, take the keychain off and come into my house to take me to the hospital."

Maria, who had difficulty moving, spent her days making quilt pieces at home. With poor eyesight, she couldn’t thread a needle on her own and would wait for me to come and help her. When I threaded the needle for her, she would give me quilt pieces to cover my kids with. The fabric she used was from when she worked at a sewing factory when she was young. The fabric was so old that it would tear when washed, but Maria didn’t know that, so she continued making beautiful quilts with it.

“Do you want a mirror or a cup?” 

Whenever I visited, she would ask, 

“If you want anything, take whatever you like.”

“Why do you act like you’ll die tomorrow?” 

Even when I refused, she seemed so eager to give me something, and I felt sorry for her. As I got older, I sometimes felt guilty spending time with younger people, thinking I was taking away their precious, youthful time. Was Maria feeling the same way?

The day Maria collapsed, the alarm necklace she so firmly believed in didn’t go on. I only found her the next day when I unlocked the door chain and saw her lying on the floor. Shocked, I called an ambulance. Maria had fallen backward, and the saliva that came from her mouth had flowed out longer than her height, leaving a chilling trace.

The doorbell necklace, as if it had nothing to do with her death, still proudly shined on her neck, gently glowing.