Just after midnight. First the siren. Then the light. Then the sky comes crashing through the night. Alina comes when the smoke lies low, when broken glass shines in the morning glow. Wooden broom, gloves stained grey, smoke above the rooftops hasn’t cleared away. Someone pulls the trigger. Someone sees no face. Someone at a screen wipes a life away. She sweeps up the windows, the doors and picture frames— pieces of a home, ashes of their names. When something hits, we’re already on our way. When everything breaks, someone has to stay. WHO ELSE IS GONNA CLEAN THIS UP? WHO ELSE IS GONNA COUNT THE SHARDS? YOU SEND THE FIRE JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT. BY MORNING WE GIVE THE CITY BACK. WHO ELSE? WHO ELSE? Twelve lives gone. Twelve more names. Twelve empty places. No one explains. A bed under bricks. A table, no wall. A photograph buried beneath it all. “What do you want from me?” someone cries from the wreck. “Did my apartment look like a missile launch site?” No uniform. No military ground. Just a kitchen and a hallway when the missiles came down. The siren starts screaming. The ground starts to shake. Before they reach the shelter, the whole building breaks. A child on the staircase. Fire in the air. The rescue crews keep digging, hoping someone’s there. WHO ELSE IS GONNA CLEAN THIS UP? WHO ELSE IS GONNA COUNT THE SHARDS? YOU SEND THE FIRE JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT. BY MORNING WE GIVE THE CITY BACK. WHO ELSE? WHO ELSE? Helicopters circle through the smoke and light. The defences count their missiles. The city counts who survived. The West hears the pleas. Kyiv hears the alarm. Alina lifts the fragments and carries them off. She cannot pull this war out of the sky. But she takes away its ruins. Piece by piece. WHO ELSE IS GONNA CLEAN THIS UP? WHO ELSE IS GONNA COUNT THE SHARDS? YOU BRING THE CHAOS. WE’RE STILL HERE. YOU BURN DOWN OUR HOMES. NOT US. NOT US. Just after midnight, the glass falls again. By morning, Alina will come. Who else?
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