The work of silence.

"It's not how many people see you, but how many don't fall because you were there."

There was a man who got up at the same time every morning.

Not because he was in a hurry, but because he knew that someone would be counting on him.

He didn't walk out the door like a hero, not with a mission, just by being present.

One day he held the hand of an old woman in the hallway, while worn numbers flashed on the wall.

Another time a young father sat across from him, and in his eyes there was a question that he didn't dare say out loud.

And in the evening a mother and a father stood before him, trembling not for their own fate, but for their children.

The man didn't promise miracles.

He didn't say that everything would be okay.

All he did was be there.

He listened. He asked. He explained. He connected. He held.

And when he went home, he didn't take the praise with him, because he didn't get it.

He didn't take the gratitude with him, because often it wasn't even said.

He only took the fatigue and the quiet knowledge that that day wasn't in vain.

Such people don't leave a trace behind them.

They don't build monuments.

They won't be role models.

But if they were to disappear one day, the world would suddenly be much colder, and no one would be able to say exactly what was missing.

They would only feel that someone who had held the space until now is no longer there.

A quiet presence leaves no trace in the noise, but it leaves a bridge in people's hearts.