When I first meet Victor, he is sitting on the floor in a corner of the immigration center, his back against a peeling wall, a tattered sketchbook resting on his knees. He has shoulder-length dark brown hair, loosely tied with a faded leather cord. Deep lines creases his face, yet when he smiles, his eyes sparkles like a child’s.

Unlike everyone else rushing to fill out forms, make phone calls, or figure out their next move, he is simply drawing. As I walk over,  he asks in Spanish: “¿Quieres ver?” — “Would you like to see?”

I sit down beside him. Inside the sketchbook lies dozens of drawings, rendered in pencil, watercolor and ballpoint pen. Their subjects vary: people, streets, and houses drawn from memory. He tells me he has never attended art school. “I am self-taught,” he says, “I learn on the road, while wandering.”

Victor has no family or children. He tells me most of his life has been spent wandering, traveling from one city to another, one country to the next. “Art is my luggage,” he remarks. “Every time I arrive somewhere new, I draw a little. And when I’m done, I keep moving.”

The United States is his destination this time. “Money is not my goal,” he emphasizes. “I long for a greater platform, so my work can be seen by more people.” He admits his dream might sound foolish. How could a 56-year-old wandering painter gain traction, with no fame, no agent and no social media accounts? “Still, I have to try,” he adds. “Without trying, I will never know the answer.”

One day, he takes out a worn puppet. Its wood is frayed and strings tangled, yet bright vivid colors still linger on its face. He maneuvers the puppet before me. It strikes exaggerated gestures, while Victor mumbles lines I could not follow. His expressions shifts alongside the puppet’s emotions. At that moment, he is no longer an obscure soul waiting for a turn of fate inside the immigration center. He is a genuine artist, performing on his very own stage.

I record the performance. After he finishes, he smiles and says: “This carries the mark of my hometown. I bring it everywhere, and it reminds me of who I am.”

I ask him what he most wants people to remember about him.

He pauses to think, then replies: “Just remember I have a dream. That is enough. Many people travel far, yet lose sight of what drives them. I have never forgotten.”