The Sky Burns, Silence Reigns

It was one of those nights when war doesn't announce itself - it simply arrives. Like a fever that suddenly bursts behind the temples. The sky over Ukraine buzzed, vibrated, hummed - not with life, but with machines. 322 drones, guided from the darkness, programmed for fear, sent by a regime that has long lost all measure. While apartment blocks trembled and fields began to flicker, Ukraine’s General Staff reported a counterstrike: an air base deep inside Russia, Borisoglebsk, hit - hit deliberately. A depot of glide bombs, a training aircraft, perhaps more - destroyed, shrouded in smoke and night. Moscow remained silent. As always, when the lights go out behind its own borders.

And yet it is not the numbers that count - but the bodies. Two dead in Kyiv, 31 injured, 25 damaged apartments in Engels, four drones above Moscow, shot down before dawn. The metro - once again a refuge, a random home, a shelter underground. Mattresses, radio static, breath held between explosions. This is no war of fronts, but a war of frequencies - fought in waves, measured in strikes per night. The region of Khmelnytskyi was spared, this time. The city of Kyiv was not. And with it, the hope that this war might eventually wear itself out. It does not. It spins, ceaselessly, ravenously.

Amid this maelstrom - a phone call. Zelenskyy and Trump. “Important,” said one. “Pretty good,” said the other. Allegedly, they spoke of air defenses, weapons production, prospects for peace. In reality, there was nothing. The line that remains came from Trump: “I don’t know. I can’t tell you whether or not that’s going to happen.” A sentence like from a crumpled script - helpless and hollow. Meanwhile, Washington freezes its deliveries - missiles, defense systems, guarantees. Europe hesitates. Ukraine plans arms production, but what is planning against swarms of drones? What are intentions against the geography of violence?

And so the counting continues, the flying continues, the silence continues. 94 Ukrainian drones shot down, then 45, then no more reports. The images repeat themselves, only the light changes - sometimes bluer, sometimes redder. And always, again, a day like this one: vibrating air, shattered windows, sluggish talks without direction. A war that no longer promises anything - not even an end.