Beautiful Kharkiv autumn: the question of the end of the war has disappeared – we are learning to live anew
We walk with the dog in the Kharkiv Hydropark – it's incredibly beautiful there, all the colors of autumn: from bright yellow to fiery burgundy. I collect leaves for my jewelry, and the Doberman plays with the Labrador puppy.
The kid runs away in a funny way, falls, rolls over, and my "bus" catches up with him and gently nudges him with its nose. The puppy's owner, a girl of about seventeen, laughs so infectiously. She said: "Eric, I just bathed you yesterday!" She has a bag of bread with her to feed the wild ducks.
And this entirely ordinary picture of the world (not even a picture, but an episode) would never have seemed cinematic if it hadn't been for the automatic queue in its background.
Continuous, never ceasing for a single minute.
Drones are being shot down somewhere nearby.
Drones that are bringing death right now. Into someone's home, office, workshop, playground. To a post office, a pharmacy, a gas station.
Recently, Russian drones have been attacking Kharkiv and the region without pause. In the morning, during the day and at night. Messages in telegram channels are pouring in one after another: "Shahed is heading for Chuhuiv," "Lightning on Lipka," "Take cover, Geranium-2!".
You know, if you look from the outside, reading these tapes, you might get the impression that we are talking about the carpet bombing of 1943.
Terrible.
And life still doesn't stop. There are fishermen sitting on the shore. One old man has tiny crucians swimming in a plastic bucket.
- "Oh, what little fish!" says the girl, the owner of the Labrador, enthusiastically.
- "I'll take it to the cat," my grandfather proudly replies, "his name is Sever, I picked him up in March of the twenty-second, on Severnaya.
Sometimes it seems to me that we are all like relatives in this city. Everyone has their own "March twenty-two," "June twenty-three," "February twenty-four.".
By the way, Kharkiv residents are easily recognized by their characteristic gesture. When you suddenly hear an unusual sound, everyone looks around. We look up to the sky.
I remember that a year ago I used to pester every soldier with a question: "When will the war end?". We all did it. And today no one asks anymore. We have learned to live anew.
I'm collecting leaves for jewelry, a girl is throwing bread to wild ducks, a Doberman is playing with a Labrador puppy, a completely gray-haired old man is catching crucians for his cat.
It's an incredibly beautiful fall around us. And the automatic queue.
Kharkiv, October 2025.
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