In Germany I am not so famous.

Host: The evening air in Berlin was thick with mist and neon glow. Rain had just fallen, leaving the cobblestones slick and reflective, like fragments of a broken mirror scattered through the streets. A café sign flickered — red, blue, then dark again — as if it, too, was uncertain whether to stay alive or fade into silence. Inside, Jack sat by the window, his coat still damp, his grey eyes fixed on the blurred shapes of passersby outside. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a small espresso, the steam curling around her face like a veil.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring out there for ten minutes. What are you thinking?”

Jack: “That fame is a strange kind of ghost, Jeeny. It haunts some people and ignores others. I read something today — Hans Berger once said, ‘In Germany I am not so famous.’ The man invented the EEG, revolutionized medicine — yet barely anyone here remembers his name.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the barista adjusted the switch, and the hum of quiet conversations filled the room. Outside, a tram screeched to a halt, its metallic cry slicing through the air.

Jeeny: “Maybe fame isn’t the same as value, Jack. Sometimes the world simply isn’t ready to honor what it doesn’t yet understand. Berger’s work still saves lives today. Isn’t that a form of immortality?”

Jack: “Immortality without recognition is just oblivion dressed in science, Jeeny. What good is creating something if no one remembers who created it?”

Jeeny: “Do you really believe that? That the measure of worth lies in how many people clap for you?”

Jack: “Not in applause — in awareness. We live in an age where people worship visibility. The invisible man, no matter how brilliant, is treated as if he never existed. Look at how society works — even truth needs marketing now.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, then hardened again, like glass catching a flicker of light. She leaned forward, her voice trembling not with anger, but with belief.

Jeeny: “Yet truth doesn’t need to be seen to be real, Jack. The heart keeps beating even when no one listens to it. The stars still burn when we’re asleep. Berger didn’t work for fame — he worked for understanding. For the mystery of the human mind itself.”

Jack: “That’s romantic, Jeeny, but naïve. The world runs on memory, and memory runs on names. You can build bridges, discover electricity, or map the brain — if your story isn’t told, it’s as if you never lived. Look at Nikola Tesla — he died alone, feeding pigeons, while Edison sold the future.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set down her cup. The sound of porcelain against wood was sharp, like the closing of a chapter.

Jeeny: “But Tesla’s ideas endured, didn’t they? His dreams outlived him. That’s the thing, Jack — the world forgets faces but remembers forces. Berger’s EEG is still used in every hospital. His name may fade, but his impact breathes on every screen that monitors a living brain.”

Jack: “Impact without identity is like a song without a singer. It echoes, but no one knows whom to thank.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what purity looks like — to give without needing the world to bow. Fame is often just a mirror — it shows people what they already worship, not what truly matters.”

Host: The rain began again — light, insistent, like the soft tapping of memory itself. Jack turned to watch the reflections ripple in the street puddles. For a moment, the neon signs outside seemed to spell out forgotten names, dissolving one by one into the water.

Jack: “Tell that to every artist who died unknown. Van Gogh, Kafka, Emily Dickinson — they all wanted to be heard, Jeeny. We pretend that silence is noble, but deep down, every soul aches to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. But being seen isn’t the same as being understood. Van Gogh’s fame came too late to save his mind, but now millions stand before his paintings and feel what he felt. Isn’t that a strange kind of redemption?”

Jack: “Redemption that comes after death is just justice delayed, and justice delayed is still cruel.”

Jeeny: “Cruel, maybe. But not empty. Because in the end, truth always finds its way, even through centuries of dust. Berger’s quiet humility was part of his genius. He didn’t need to be famous — he needed to be accurate, useful, true.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The rain thickened, drumming harder on the glass. The café lights flickered again, and their faces glowed faintly — two silhouettes against a world that constantly forgot its heroes.

Jack: “Do you think the world will ever change? That we’ll stop worshiping the loudest voices?”

Jeeny: “Only when we learn to listen to the quiet ones. The world needs both — the ones who shout, and the ones who build in silence. Berger was one of the latter.”

Jack: “You’re saying fame is just a symptom, not a measure.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the echo, not the song. The shadow, not the light.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, his breath fogging the window for a moment before it vanished. His eyes followed a young man outside, hunched under an umbrella, hurrying through the streetlights — another anonymous figure in the rain.

Jack: “But don’t you ever want to be remembered, Jeeny? To know your life meant something — to someone?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But I don’t need a statue for that. If a child grows stronger because of something I’ve done, or if someone smiles because I listened, that’s enough. Fame is the world’s language — meaning is the soul’s.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the world doesn’t pay poets well.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world should learn a different currency.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke, delicate and unresolved. Jack rubbed his hands together, as if trying to warm himself from a cold that wasn’t just physical. He looked at her, really looked — the way one might look at a portrait that suddenly starts to move.

Jack: “You know, maybe Berger’s anonymity was his final lesson. That the true value of an idea isn’t measured by its owner, but by its survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ego dies, but the creation lives. That’s the quiet alchemy of purpose.”

Jack: “Then perhaps fame is just the world’s way of saying thank you too loudly — and too late.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe obscurity is the heaven where the real creators rest.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. A faint moonlight cut through the clouds, illuminating the slick streets. The puddles no longer reflected only the neon — they reflected stars, faint but insistent, like forgotten souls remembering their own light.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? Berger might not be famous here, but every EEG in every hospital is whispering his name in silence.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the kind of fame worth having.”

Host: Jack smiled — a quiet, unguarded smile, rare and fleeting. The light from outside touched his face, softening the edges of his doubt.

The camera would have panned slowly away — from their table, from the faint steam rising from their cups, from the streets that shimmered like memories. The last image would have lingered on the moon, breaking through clouds, silvering the city that had forgotten its inventor, yet still pulsed with his gift.

And in that still moment, even anonymity seemed holy — a quiet proof that meaning doesn’t need a name to live forever.