What Remains of Bakhmut

The shattered glass and broken furniture scattered everywhere gave the impression that a tornado had passed through, but it was something much worse.

Serhiy stepped carefully over the debris, his boots crunching against the remains of what had once been a kitchen table. A broken teacup lay nearby, its delicate porcelain now nothing more than dust and jagged edges. His mother had loved that cup. She always used it on Sundays, pouring tea as she hummed old folk songs. Now, the house—what little was left of it—was silent.

The war had taken everything. The city of Bakhmut, once his home, was now a ruin, a skeleton of concrete and steel. The air smelled of smoke and dust, the echoes of artillery fire still rumbling in the distance.

He knelt by the collapsed bookshelf, brushing away the ash that had settled like snowfall. There, half-buried under rubble, was a photo frame, cracked but intact. He picked it up with trembling fingers. Inside was a picture of his parents, smiling in the warm glow of a summer evening. His father’s arm was around his mother, her eyes crinkled in laughter.

They had stayed behind when the war came. “This is our home,” his father had said. “We will not run.” But homes didn’t stop missiles. They didn’t stop the relentless advance of war.

Serhiy clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand. There was nothing left here, only memories and dust. He had come back for closure, but found only emptiness.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins, carrying the distant cries of those still searching, still hoping. But Serhiy knew the truth. Bakhmut had fallen, and with it, so had everything he once knew.

All he could do now was leave—and carry their memory with him.