(short story)

The window in Halyna’s kitchen used to face a field of sunflowers. Now it faced a crater.

Before the war, mornings in her small house outside Kharkiv began with coffee, radio, and her cat purring on the windowsill. She would hum folk songs as she kneaded dough, unconsciously choosing the tune that matched the day’s mood — a habit passed down from her grandmother. She never thought she’d need to hum through the sound of shelling.

February 24, 2022. That was when the calendar stopped being decorative and became a countdown.

At first, she refused to leave. “This is my land,” she told her son, who had come back from Kyiv to convince her. “I was born here. I’ll die here.”

“Not, if I can help it,” he said, hugging her too tightly.

But war has a way of ignoring logic — and borders. Halyna stayed, stubborn as the cherry tree in her yard that still bloomed, even after half its trunk was scorched.

In the shelter beneath the school, she met others who stayed. A violin teacher. A welder. A boy who quoted Taras Shevchenko like spells.

They shared bread, silence, and stories. They painted little tridents on the walls — tryzubs, symbols of freedom. They kept track of towns and villages on a torn map taped to the wall, red circles for occupied places, blue stars for those liberated. Each star felt like a sunrise.

When a missile hit the nearby cultural center, Halyna went to see what was left. Books. Charred portraits. And a poster with bold letters:

“Мова — це наша зброя.” (Language is our weapon.)

She took it home.

Months passed. The Ukrainian flag still waved — tattered, but defiantly alive — over the ruined school. Her son now wore camouflage. Her kitchen window now faced the East, yes — but also hope.

She planted new sunflowers this spring. And every time she hears a drone above, she hums.

Not out of fear. Out of resistance…

P.S. Remember you can support our soldiers through trusted channels during these times.