Luciano en Sharon

In December 2003, 38-year-old Joyce Vincent d*ed alone in her small flat above a busy shopping center in North London.

No one found her for more than two years.

When officials finally forced open the door, they found the television still on. On the sofa was a human skeleton, surrounded by wrapped Christmas presents.

No one had reported her missing. Part of her rent was paid automatically by a benefits agency, so money kept arriving.

Neighbors assumed the flat was empty. The building was noisy, so the sound of the television raised no alarm. When they noticed a smell, they blamed the garbage bins outside.

Her body was too badly decomposed to determine how she d*ed, and the coroner recorded an open verdict. Police identified her by comparing her teeth with dental records and a photograph of her smiling while on holiday.

Joyce had not always been isolated. Friends remembered her as popular, funny, and ambitious.

But in her final years, she quit her job, drifted away from her friends, and spent time in a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. One by one, the people in her life lost track of her, each assuming she was fine.

No one knows exactly how she d*ed or who the presents were for.