July 15, 2025

I met her in Mannheim, alter Messplatz. Not a loud place, but not one that listens either. She sits there, day after day, with calm hands and a gentle gaze. No one knows her name, but many know her work, she cleans the toilets, for just a few euros. Work that most would avoid. Work that’s easy to overlook. But she’s there. Quiet, unassuming, present. Her clothes speak of effort and dignity, her face of a life that doesn’t need a stage. And on her arm-a simply drawn cross, radiating light. She told me she got it at 18. A mark that’s stayed with her through everything. Maybe comfort. Maybe hope. Maybe memory. I wonder who she is. What she dreams of, who she loves. A person who deserves our respect. Not pity-respect. We walk past people like her every day. But they are the ones who carry the weight of the everyday. They keep the world turning, quietly, in the background.