THE WAR DOESN’T RIDE THE RAILS

The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled me. I rubbed my dry eyes, trying to weave a coherent thought as I stared at the half-finished university essay on my laptop screen. It had to be done by the end of next week. But for now, a weekend awaited me—away from the chaos of Kyiv, with its constant air alarms and missile strikes. To be honest, there is no truly safe place in Ukraine now. But still it’s much calmer in the countryside than in the capital.

I stretched. My spine clearly didn’t approve of the amount of time students were expected to spend hunched over their laptops. The brakes screeched, and the train slowly ground to a halt.

‘Fastiv, dear passengers!’ bellowed a portly, sweaty conductor as he rushed through the old and tired third-class carriage.

New passengers entered, heads turning every which way in search of their seats. After a few minutes, an elderly woman settled into the seat across from me, long skirt and carrying a large checkered bag.

‘Good afternoon,’ I nodded politely. ‘And a good afternoon to you, child,’ she replied.

The train started moving again. My earbuds had finally died, so I tucked them away and went back to watching the trees flicker past the window. The woman clearly saw my empty ears as an invitation to talk.

‘So you’re… a student, I suppose?’ she said as she wiped her nose with a cotton handkerchief, then tucked it into her pocket. ‘I am,’ I replied, eyes still fixed on the window.

I didn’t feel like chatting. I didn’t want to spend the next two hours hearing about grandkids, ungrateful youth, and government subsidies.

‘I knew it! So young, and with a laptop too—must be a student!’ she continued cheerfully.

I sighed inwardly and silently scolded myself for not charging my earbuds.

‘You see, my youngest daughter’s finishing her second year. That’s why I can always tell who’s a student,’ she added with a grin. I forced a weak smile in return.

‘What year are you in?’ She studied me with curiosity. ‘First,’ I replied curtly.

She must have sensed my disinterest because she fell silent and pulled out some knitting. And just as I caught the pungent smell—boiled eggs, and probably sausages too.

Of course: third-class carriage, heat, and eggs with sausages. Classic. Please, God, don’t let her have onions as well…

She clicked her needles busily, and I found peace in the quiet, even if it came with the scent of eggs and meat. Minutes passed. The train rumbled on, and my eyes drifted to the rhythm of the knitting in her hands. She noticed my gaze and smiled.

‘I’m knitting this for my grandson,’ she said gently.
‘That’s very sweet,’ I replied—and I meant it. Her eyes sparkled with joy.
‘He’s turning two soon. I’m on my way to see him for his birthday. Got him a gift, an expensive one, been saving from my pension. And I’m knitting him this little outfit too.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ I nodded.
‘Oh yes,’ she brightened, clearly happy I was finally engaging. ‘He’s a good boy. But lately a little bit naughty, not listening to his mama—my daughter, Solomiya.’

She fished a phone from her pocket, the kind with a flip cover, and looked ready to show me photos. I sighed internally again and braced myself for the parade of baby pictures. In adulthood, there’s an unwritten rule: you pretend to be fascinated by photos of other people’s children, no matter how little you care. So I leaned in with a polite smile.

‘He’s adorable,’ I told her. She nodded, pleased, and swiped to the next photo.
‘And here’s a vest I made him last month. Pretty, right?’ ‘Very pretty,’ I said, wondering how many babies and vests I still had to compliment.
She kept swiping. I kept watching. And then— suddenly—a photo of a young man in military uniform appeared. Smiling broadly, rifle in hand. Dust lined the creases around his eyes. His face was unshaven. I must’ve reacted, because she glanced at the screen and said, ‘Oh, that’s my son-in-law Andrii.’ I looked at her, then back at the screen. The man looked barely older than a teenager.
‘He was killed at the beginning of June. Not even forty days yet…,’ she added softly.
Something thudded in my chest. I looked at the woman—really looked at her—for the first time.

‘Honestly,’ she continued, her voice hollow and far away, ‘I thought Solomiya would lose her mind. She was home alone when they told her. Oh, she was screaming and crying desperately… I thought I’d lose my daughter too.’

I heard her voice as though through water. My eyes stayed fixed on the soldier’s face. She swiped again. A young woman stared back at us from the screen—barely older than me, red-rimmed eyes, a black mourning band on her forehead. Her face pale, almost blue. A chubby little boy leaned against her shoulder. I wanted to say something. To that mother. To the woman sitting in front of me, who carried her daughter’s grief as though it were her own. But the relentless years of war had bred a strange immunity in me.

Not numbness—no. I felt it all. Deeply, truly. But if you let yourself break over every fallen soldier, every wounded civilian—you’ll end up in a psychiatric ward before long. My tongue forgot how to move.

‘May Andrii rest in peace,’ I muttered, barely audible. ‘Thank you…’ she sighed. ‘He would’ve turned twenty-three this August. Dropped out of law school and volunteered for the front. The first time he was given leave, he and my daughter got married. You see, they were in such a hurry to live…’

She paused.

‘Then came Tymofiy. Andrii saw his child maybe three times. And now… now Tymofiy visits his father at the cemetery. Kisses the cross on his grave, my sweet boy. Kisses it, and looks up at the sky— because that’s where his daddy is. And Solomiya…

She’s like a ghost now. Only that kid keeps her alive. If it weren’t for him, I’d have buried not just my son-in-law, but my daughter too.’

I glanced from the photo to the woman. I had no words. Nothing I could say would be enough. Her grandson would never know their father—so I could travel to see mine. So I could write an essay and forget, sometimes, that the war was still here. That soldier should’ve finished his education. Should’ve lived out his youth, travelled the world. Raised his kids—children who might never have been born if war hadn’t breathed down their parents’ necks, urging them to live decades in a single year.

I found myself wanting to see another photo of Tymofiy. That child suddenly felt like part of me. Even the stench of eggs stopped bothering me. She composed herself and swiped again. I hoped to see the boy—his knitted pants and his vests. Instead, a photo appeared: another man, framed in black ribbon. Older. Rougher features. Thick brows. I held my breath.

‘That’s their godfather, Mykhailo,’ she explained. ‘He died this year too. He used to run a business. A missile hit his apartment in Dnipro. His wife and daughter were home. He’d just stepped out to the store or somewhere… who knows. Came back—no home, no family. Who would want to live after that? So right after the funeral, he signed up. Said: ‘At least I’ll be useful. I’ll take revenge. I’ll drive that filth off our land.’

She sighed.

‘Now he’s with his beloved girls… Well, Mykhailo had lived a little. He was thirty. But my son-in-law… Just a boy indeed. Imagine, only twenty-one years old.

A child, really. He didn’t want to live u n d e r t h e tricolor. And Solomiya… She didn’t stop him. She said, ‘If not you, then who? This is our land. And we want to raise our children here.’

I sighed.
Twenty-one. My generation.
And yes. Solomiya was right. This is our land, our country.

But what a price we pay to call it ours… I probably should’ve said something. But the woman didn’t need words—just someone to listen.
My thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing.

‘Hello! Yes, dear, I’m almost there. I think we’re close to Koziatyn.I’ll call once I get off. Yes… okay. Bye!’

She cleared her throat. Then silence spread around. I stared ahead, seeing nothing. The young female voice on the phone echoed in my mind.

‘They say heroes never die,’ the woman suddenly said—not to me, but to the void. ‘Lies. They do die. They burn out like sparks from a fire. And their children visit cemeteries more often than playgrounds.’ I nodded slowly—automatically. ‘Heroes die.’ I whispered, teeth clenched. ‘Russia kills them.’ She looked me in the eye. In her pupils, I saw rage, pain, and something else. Something vast and wordless, that lived in my own eyes too. ‘I hope they all rot,’ she said, each word like a nail. ‘Those who kill our people. May Hell be too small for them all!’ Her fury was cut short by the conductor.

‘Dear passengers, Koziatyn in ten minutes!’

‘Well, here’s my stop.’ She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and stood, lifting her checkered bag.

‘Take care, child.’
‘Thank you,’ I nodded. ‘You too. Goodbye.’ She smiled kindly and then disappeared into the vestibule of the train.
I hugged my knees to my chest.

‘May Hell be too small for them all…’