This spring, a Russian missile slipped through Ukrainian air defences and crashed into a three-storey building, killing 13 members of an extended family, save for a young girl who was pulled free from the wreckage.
When I arrived a few weeks later, an area the size of two tennis courts was flattened into rubble, the windows of every apartment looking out into the blast zone were blown out by the explosion and now boarded with plywood, parked cars were mangled out of shape, the paint burnt off their chassis. Somehow, amidst all this wreckage, a few walls of the building were still standing, wallpaper intact, fittings still protruding from the upright surfaces.
On a small rectangle of grass, not far from the blast site, neighbours had assembled a small shrine to the dead: photographs, bouquets of red plastic flowers, two basketballs scribbled with messages of condolences, dozens of stuffed toys, and a large plastic flask of drinking water.
