The next time she came over, I noticed the subtle confidence in the way she moved, the rhythm she worked with, almost like choreography. I found myself watching more closely—not to supervise, but to understand. There was an inner world within her that I had never taken the time to consider. While she wiped the counters, I finally asked about her art. She paused, surprised, then smiled shyly as if unsure whether it was appropriate to talk about something personal. But once she started, her passion spilled out gently. She told me about painting late at night, attending small exhibitions, and saving up bit by bit for an art course she dreamed of taking abroad.
As she spoke, I realized that I had unconsciously placed her in a box—“my cleaner,” nothing more. Yet here she was, a woman with aspirations, talents, and stories that stretched far beyond the walls of my apartment. It made me reflect on my own life, too. I’d been drifting comfortably from day to day, never questioning whether I had dreams left unmet. Her courage to pursue her art, even while juggling demanding work, made me rethink what fulfillment really meant. That night, I sat on my balcony, looking out over the city lights, wondering how many people around me were quietly carrying extraordinary worlds inside them. Continue reading…
