Snow was falling in Kyiv when everything changed.
Alina remembered it clearly — the way her mother was brewing tea, the soft hum of the news playing on low volume, and her father's voice saying, "It's just threats. They won't cross the line." She was fifteen, in her room, sketching a sunflower. Her brother, Andriy, had just turned nineteen and was pacing the living room like he had somewhere else to be. Always restless. Always burning with something.
Their home was small, but full of life. Her father, Oleksandr, was a schoolteacher. Her mother, Iryna, worked at a local clinic. Andriy was preparing for university. Alina was still in school, dreaming of becoming an artist.
That morning, they had breakfast together. Toast, cheese, and warm laughter. The kind of ordinary day no one thinks to remember — until it's gone forever.
By evening, the sirens began.
"They've invaded."
It was Andriy who said it first, his eyes wide, face pale. The TV confirmed it moments later. Russia had begun a full-scale assault. Bombs were falling. Kyiv would not be safe.
Oleksandr turned to Iryna, his face hardening. "We need to leave. Now."
But Andriy stood tall. "No. I'm staying. I'm joining the defense."
Iryna screamed, "Are you out of your mind?!"
"I have to, Mama," he said. "They're killing civilians. Children."
"I'll go too," Oleksandr added, more quietly.
Iryna's knees gave out. "Both of you?!"
There was no argument loud enough to stop them. That night, Oleksandr packed his old military coat, and Andriy stuffed his school backpack with whatever gear he could find. At dawn, they hugged the girls tightly. Oleksandr kissed Iryna's forehead. Andriy wrapped his arms around Alina, whispering, "You're my sunflower, remember? Stay strong. We'll see you soon."
Then they were gone — swallowed by a city preparing for war.
The escape was chaos.
Iryna and Alina left with a neighbor, sneaking through half-empty roads and underground stations. Airstrikes echoed behind them. Alina clutched her sketchbook and a small backpack, filled only with essentials: a water bottle, a scarf Andriy had left behind, and the last photo of their family smiling in the sun.
They crossed the border into Romania after five days of walking, waiting, hiding. The refugee center was overcrowded, loud, and freezing. Iryna was quiet now — quieter than Alina had ever seen her.
Each night, they huddled in a corner of the shelter, surrounded by strangers. Children cried in their sleep. Mothers whispered prayers. Alina tried not to cry. She had to be strong. For her mother. For Andriy. For Papa.
They tried calling. Sending emails. Nothing came back.
Weeks passed.
Volunteers brought food, clothes, and updates. "Fighting near Donetsk," they said. "Heavy shelling in Kharkiv." No one ever mentioned names. No one could say who was alive and who was not.
Then one day, a phone rang. A blocked number. Iryna answered with shaking hands.
"...Mama?" came a crackling voice.
"ANDRIY?!" she screamed.
"I'm okay," he said. "Papa's okay. We're tired, but holding the line."
Alina snatched the phone. "Come back. Please, come back."
"I will," he promised. "As soon as I can. I love you, sunflow—"
The line cut off.
They never heard his voice again.
Winter came.
Iryna grew ill. Too much cold, too little food, too much grief. She coughed often, slept little, and spoke even less. Alina tried to stay hopeful. She drew pictures for the children in the shelter, helped volunteers, and kept a journal where she wrote to Andriy every night.
"Today I taught a little girl how to draw a cat. You'd be proud. Come back soon."
But inside, something was cracking.
Then one morning, Iryna didn't wake up.
Alina screamed for help. Doctors came. It was pneumonia. Too late. Too much damage. Her mother passed quietly, fingers curled around the scarf that once belonged to Andriy.
Alina was alone.
She was sixteen now. She lived in a foster center in Bucharest. The other children called her "the quiet one" — always drawing, always staring out windows.
One day, a man from the Ukrainian Red Cross arrived.
"Are you Alina Horodetska?"
She nodded.
"We've confirmed something about your father."
Her breath stopped.
"Oleksandr Horodetskyi died defending a village near Chernihiv. We're sorry."
Alina felt nothing at first. Just emptiness. Then anger. And then a crushing silence.
"What about Andriy?"
He hesitated. "He was with your father. He went missing. We searched. A body was never recovered. But it's been months."
"...So he's dead too?"
He said nothing.
That was her answer.
Alina walked out of the building that night with the weight of the world inside her chest. She carried the dog tags they found on Oleksandr's body. She wore Andriy's scarf. In her hand, she clutched a sealed envelope the Red Cross man gave her.
"Your brother wrote this. We found it in your father's pocket."
She sat beneath a tree, knees pulled to her chest, and opened it with shaking fingers.
"To my sunflower,
If you're reading this, something went wrong. But don't cry. I fought because I had to — for you, for Mama, for our home. I don't regret it.
I remember when you used to draw little stars on my arms and laugh when I pretended they were real tattoos. You believed art could save people. You were right.
I want you to live. Not just survive — live. Tell our story. Grow up. Be free. And when the war ends — it will end — go plant sunflowers back home. Like I promised.
I love you forever.Your annoying brother,Andriy"*
She couldn't breathe.
She sobbed under the open sky until the stars blurred.
Years passed.
Alina returned to Ukraine as a journalist. The war had shifted, the world moved on, but her mission never changed.
She visited the village near Chernihiv where her father died. It was quiet now — no gunfire, just wind and memories.
There, in the field where his last stand was made, she planted a row of sunflowers.
Bright. Unafraid. Beautiful.
Just like he promised.
And though the war had taken everything — her father, her brother, her mother, her home — it couldn't take her will to remember.
Because one survived.
And she would carry them all in every word she wrote.
Forever.