On a street in Vasylkiv, through the shattered wall of a house, evening New York peeks out. As if it had long been hiding there and finally gets to breathe in the damp May air of the Kyiv region. It gazes out from behind the rubble, slightly bewildered, as if it got off the elevator on the wrong floor. It glimmers with its evening lights in a way that feels strange and out of place here. The perspective of the Brooklyn Bridge resembles a road to paradise. Somewhere up there, maybe on the top floor of the tallest skyscraper, the President of the United States is making a call that, once again, will change nothing. The scene is truly magical. Worthy of a contemporary art museum. While Trump was talking on the phone with Putin, Russia struck the yard of a house with a Shahed drone — a local family was hiding there. The mother was hugging her son. The shrapnel pierced her body, hit the boy as well, but he survived. She died instantly, giving her 4-year-old son a second chance at life. The sobs of relatives mixed with the roar of fighter jets in the sky, refusing to let anyone forget about danger — even at the cemetery.