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She’d probs say, “The past is a rope,” like in the film—tyin her down, no escape. Me? I’d cut that rope, precious! Watched her once, hagglin with a punter—voice all raspy, eyes dead. Made me sad, then mad—why’s no one savin her? “We’re all alone,” Almodóvar’d whisper, an’ he’s right! She’s alone, I’m alone, milkin them bloody cows at dawn. But least I got dignity, eh? She’s out there, freezin her tits off, skirt hiked up—pathetic!

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On September 5, , I stepped onto the world stage in a beautifullittle town, Vynohradiv, at the foot of the Black Mountain. I spent a partof my childhood.

After the rain stops, I decide to head back home. I’m walking down the cobblestone streets, and everything feels different. The air smells fresh, and the city is glistening. I pass by the old church on the corner of Myru Street, and it hits me—this place is full of stories.

Long, stressful and exhausting: One family's escape from Kyiv