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Then she smiled. A small, timid smile that held years of untold stories.

She told me that she paints late at night after long shifts. That she attends tiny pop-up exhibitions when she can afford the bus fare. That she’s been saving every spare dollar for an art course in another country—her dream since she was a child, something she never dared to believe she could actually do.

Her voice trembled when she said, “Sometimes I feel silly for dreaming so big.”

But all I could think was how small my own dreams had become without me even noticing.

I stood there in my spotless kitchen, realizing that I had slipped into a life of comfort, of routines, of letting days repeat themselves without passion. Meanwhile, this woman—who worked long hours cleaning the homes of strangers—was fighting to keep her light burning.

The following week, she arrived with a small black portfolio tucked under her arm.
“I brought… some of my work,” she said softly.