Postcard "Loneliness" A6

That morning in Chiang Mai, my son, usually bursting with energy, sat quietly. We were having breakfast in a vegan café, a simple place with worn furniture, dusty shelves, and a plastic-wrapped menu featuring low-resolution photos.

"I don't like this place," Leo mumbled, closing the menu without ordering. I knew better than to push him. He needed time to process his feelings, and I was there for him, silently.

It was then I saw him: an old man with a lost gaze, hands trembling as he fumbled with his wallet.

He seemed lost.

I grabbed my sketchbook and pen, beginning to capture his weary figure. Finished, I set up my camera on the tripod.

Silently, I approached him, holding out the drawing. He looked at it, his face brightening with recognition and he smiled.

"You have such a beautiful smile," I said, "It's a pity you weren't smiling when I drew you."

He studied the drawing again, his gaze lingering on the lines I had captured. "I may not look nice in this one, but I still accept it as a part of me, and I like it." His words were laced with wisdom, and I smiled back.

He gathered his belongings and left, limping slightly on one leg.

Days later, I found myself in a different cafe. He walked by, and I called out to him. He turned and smiled. "It's you!" He exclaimed.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?" I asked, gesturing to the seat across from me.

He accepted, and we sat down. He had a curious fashion sense, wearing bright, colorful t-shirts and baseball caps.

The waitress brought my order. Curry and rice. "Do you want to share?" I asked, pushing the plate towards him.

He nodded, and I asked for a second plate and forks.

"I love this place," he said. "I used to come here every day. They have this special Nepal dish. It's on the poster." He rose from his chair and walked towards the banner, but his face fell as he approached it. "It's not there anymore!"

"They must have changed the poster," I said.

"I love Nepal cuisine," he said, his voice tinged with longing. "I spend six months of every year there."

And then, he began to share his story, the loneliness that had settled around him like a shroud. He had lost his contacts, his friends, his sense of place. He was in his late sixties, and his memories were becoming fragmented.

"One day, I took my laptop and phone," he said, his voice drifting, "Put them in a plastic bag, and took them to the garbage dump."

"Why?" I asked gently.

"I don't remember," he said, his brow furrowed. "I don't remember taking them there, only leaving and seeing them all on fire."

In his youth, he had traveled with his parents to the Soviet Union, later growing and selling sprouts in Portugal, and then sculpting in Italy. A head of mafia had purchased all his sculptures for $50,000, so he closed that chapter of his life and moved to Nepal, a wanderer ever since.

We finished our meal, and I asked the waiter for a vegan cookie. "For dessert," I said, handing it to him.

He smiled and walked back to the food banner, his gaze fixed on it. "It was there, I remember," he said, his voice filled with confusion.

I nodded, my heart aching for him. I paid the bill and shook his hand. "It was nice hearing your stories. Maybe we'll run into each other again."

He smiled, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and walked away slowly. I never saw him again, and I don't know how he is now.

He had everything, but he was missing the one thing that truly mattered - human connection. He was a man searching for a place to belong.