aiToday, I finished assembling a puzzle. A big one —47 by 67 cm. I bought a poster frame and hung it on my wall. But to see the whole picture, I have to step back. My current room in Nieuwegein, Netherlands used to be part of a kitchen in a former boarding school for the children of skippers. Once upon a time this house was home to Dutch children, now it is a shelter for 200 Ukrainians under temporary protection. My room has two doors, and on one wall there are remnants of tiles from the working kitchen. Now there’s a bed, a table, and a wardrobe, with only a few steps between them and the window. To see the puzzle properly, I have to open the door and stand in the doorway. And so, here I am, standing at the threshold of my room, looking at an image of my hometown —Kharkiv. More precisely, a crossroads in the heart of its historic center.

aiI have deep roots in this city. Whenever someone asked me how long I’d lived in Kharkiv, I would proudly answer: eight generations. I have known this intersection my entire life.

aiIn the foreground of the picture, there’s a slender, dark-haired woman in oversized sunglasses. She’s sitting at a café terrace, sipping coffee. Behind her, people are gathered —drinking, eating, laughing, talking. And I can imagine myself walking toward the café, recognizing the woman with her coffee —my best friend, Zhenya. In just a moment, I’ll sit down next to her, order my coffee, and we’ll talk about everything —about our future plans, relationships, what her kids like to eat. We've known each other for more than ten years; there’s always a lot to say.

aiAround us, the city rises. Centuries-old buildings stand tall. Right behind Zhenya is City Hall —an architectural monument. Further back, a church that has been there since the 17th century, when the city was founded. Beyond that, the massive Palace of Labor, stretching across an entire block. And we sit in 1654 —the name of the café, marking the year Kharkiv was founded.

aiI have so many memories of meeting friends in cafés across the city. This picture is more than a cityscape —it’s the essence of warm, endless conversations.

aiIn March 2022, every building in this puzzle would be damaged by Russian missiles. And for the first time in my life, I would choose to live outside Kharkiv. No public transportation was working so a friend with a car drove me to catch a train. 

aiFor the past three years, we’ve talked on the phone. I tell her about my life in the Netherlands; she tells me she’s taking philosophy classes and voice lessons, that despite the war, she will sing solo for the first time. We stitch together our lives across the distance —just as we always have.

aiThis New Year 2025, I decided to visit Ukraine to see the people I love. I called Zhenya, told her I was coming. She told me she was leaving —that this year, she would celebrate New Year’s somewhere in Europe; that maybe, we wouldn’t see each other.

aiNo —we would meet, no matter what. Now it was my turn to see her off at the station. And so, we met in Kyiv, where her train had a 50-minute stop. We drank coffee and talked. Then she left. I stayed.

aiBut now, in my room, there is a puzzle —a portal to a life that was and will be again.

aiThe box with this puzzle came from my Dutch friend, Marieke. I should say Marieke speaks Ukrainian almost without an accent. She has loved Ukraine and its culture for years. Because of her job, she often travels there and always brings something back for me.

aiWhen we met this time, she handed me the puzzle box and said, “This is for you. I already put it together, so you can keep it.” To me, that sounded quite Dutch —despite the fact that we were speaking Ukrainian.

aiThe puzzle I hung on my wall today is a teleport, piece by piece I was putting my life back together —a thousand tiny memories holding me whole, a thousand puzzle pieces packed into a box and each one carrying a tale.