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.

In October 2023, while in Moscow applying for a Schengen visa, I left the Luxembourg Embassy and wandered toward a nearby park. As I turned into an alley, I passed an old man sitting quietly. I took a seat on the bench beside him. His clothes were worn but clean and neat. A large piece of cardboard beside him read, “Help for living.”

I pulled out my pen and paper and began sketching. He gazed at the passersby with lonely eyes, unnoticed by anyone. In that moment, he reminded me of my late grandfather, who would sit with a similar gaze, lost in thought, reflecting on the years that had slipped away and the life that had never truly been lived.

When I finished the drawing, I approached him and handed it over. His eyes filled with tears as he took it.

“Is this me?” he asked, smiling through his emotions.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is this a keepsake for me?” His voice trembled.

“Yes,” I said, a bit louder this time.

And then he cried, saying, “Thank you!” In that moment, I understood what he felt—he felt seen and loved.

It was something he hadn’t experienced in years. At that instant, he sensed acceptance from me, free from judgment, past mistakes, or expectations.

He was loved — simply for existing, just for being himself. That's the power of connection, the warmth of human interaction. And our fund can offer this very same love and attention to the elderly. Imagine a world where they feel seen and noticed, cared for and loved.

That's the world we strive to build, where every elderly person, like the man in the Moscow park, can experience the simple joy of being acknowledged and cherished.

In the beginning of April I drew Granny Thuy at the Night Market in Koh Phangan. An Instagram reel featuring her story has gained almost 27 million views and been reposted over 100,000 times.

A week later, I found her in the market again and learned that she had debts and was struggling to pay rent. I immediately launched a fundraising campaign for her.

Together, we raised around $15,000, allowing me to: cover her rent and debts, take Granny to the doctor, buy her new clothes, furniture, and electronics. I also cleaned and renovated her house.

With every Instagram story, people wrote to me about how Granny seemed visibly younger and happier each day.

She’s incredibly grateful for everything that has come into her life. Now, she’s not worried about her future, as she receives a monthly allowance of $350 directly to her account. She’s more relaxed and happy overall, knowing that she’s taken care of.

This story brought so much joy and fulfillment into my life that I realized I want to continue on this path of giving and see where it leads. I feel like there are many more stories like this to come, people who need a helping hand, a moment of kindness, a spark of hope. I believe in the power of small acts, the ripple effect of generosity.

In June, during my first trip to Cambodia, I strolled through Lolei village with a friend when an elderly man greeted us with a wide, toothless smile. His joy was so infectious, I wanted to capture that moment on paper.

The next day, I returned to his home and presented him with the drawing. His smile grew even brighter as he examined every detail, playfully mimicking the pose, proudly showing his missing teeth, and laughing heartily.

After leaving Cambodia, I created a joyful reel inspired by him, sold artwork with him and decided to return in August to surprise him with a gift.

When I found him again, we chatted with a translator. He revealed he was struggling with health issues. We took him to the doctor and found that it that his condition was caused by his poor diet.

This prompted us to initiate a food program in his village, providing essential groceries to ensure everyone received the vital nutrients they needed for better health.

Many older people in poor countries don't get enough healthy food. They often eat just rice because they don't have much money. Our program helps by giving them food with the things they need to be healthy.

In Cambodia, a woman struggling with a cart of refuse caught my eye. It was an instinct, a pull I couldn’t ignore. I knew I had to draw her.

We turned around, and I sketched her quickly as she sorted through the garbage. When I finished, I chased after her, finding her three blocks away, and handed her the drawing along with some cash.

She was 77, living in a shack, collecting trash for $5 a day. We visited her in her house and her daughter greeted us with hands calloused from years of hard labor.

The next day, I offered Granny Seng to help her with the house or start a small business, but she shook her head, "Every day, I worry about how to make the payments for my debt."

As it turned out they were in a cycle of debts, taking one loan after another, with the interest rates so high that it seemed impossible for them to get even close to paying it off.

With help from my online followers, we cleared her debts. "It’s like I was drowning and then I got saved," Granny Seng said, happy tears in her eyes.

We created a monthly pension for her, so she wouldn't have to collect garbage anymore.

This cycle of debt is a common trap in Cambodia, where micro-loans are readily available but often lead to impossible burdens. People like Granny Seng find themselves working tirelessly, not to improve their lives, but simply to pay interest rates, trapped in a system that keeps them enslaved. With a help of our found Granny Seng became dept-free and started a new life, free of burden.