The Chair

During the early days of the war, my hometown in Kharkiv Oblast fell under occupation. Shortly after, a Russian missile struck the apartment building where I grew up. When the Ukrainian army liberated the town, my mother returned home. There, instead of the familiar wall with a window in the children's room, she found a gaping hole and fragments of a cast-iron bathtub on the doorstep. Amidst the chaos of smashed furniture, scattered belongings, and piles of glass, one item remained steadfast – my chair. It proved resilient, my chair survived. But did I survive after these events?

Now, within the renovated walls of my childhood home, everything feels unfamiliar except for the chair. Is this item enough to retain the essence of my past? How long does the suffering for a lost past persist before fading away? Is there room for hope for a brighter future while wandering the maze of despair and pain, longing to find yourself again? How much pain must one endure on the journey from a shattered self to the creation of a new identity? To reset to zero, to break free from the grip of the past, to believe in the dawn of a new life, to become a new life - yet, will it be so?