The wintry air ripped Darnytsia open, a gust with a metallic taste floated, tantalizing, and knocked on the doors of the neighborhood. Overhead, the faded rays of the sun were carefully knitted into the clear blue sky, nevertheless, warmth was an exaggeration, since the neighborhood remained as frigid as ever. From time to time, the rustling of leaves tinkled in a morose tone, and with a swoosh, a cascade of golden brown gave way to the incessant land of always winter.

The streets were deserted. The once wide and magnificent concrete walkways were depleted into disrepair, and along the middle of the road, the smooth gravel was repeatedly overrun by the heavy tracks of nameless atrocities. To each side, surrounded by a litter of broken bodies, was a graffiti wall covered with scribbles in the color of the sun and the sky - they were faded though - thus these intelligible words gave out a twinge of enigmatic sadness.

And so, evenfall enveloped the decrepit neighborhood as sunset melted into twilight which softened into dusk. Despite the onset of night-time, the houses were as still as ever, illuminated only by the absence of luminosity. Therefore, pedantic rows to either side of the neighborhood were suffocated amidst the cacophony of darkness and the harsh wintry air, which coincidentally blew up a maelstrom of unvoiced emotions, echoed. Except…it was not all bleak, a flicker lit up the downstairs window of number 42.

Through the dusty window, a young girl knelt on the ground, her small hands clasped under her chin, her back arched covered by the cascade of brown waves. Beside her, a tiny matchbox (her father’s parting gift), a used match - the tip blackened with soot - her last one, and a candle. The girl stared into the leaping flames, and the yellow inferno reflected the inquisitive sparkle of her ocean eyes. A chill ran down her spine as the fire emitted its radiant warmth into the surrounding air; without hesitation, she faced the palms of her hands on top. Tentatively, the girl reached into an adjacent cabinet, and unfolded a crumpled piece of paper; she brought it close to the dying firelight and read a word - the last word her father had before he left - written in the color of the sun and the sky: hope. Nevertheless, even as she read it aloud repeatedly to herself, it remained a jumble of disjointed letters. And so, she held it next to the light, watching the flames lick the pale letters black. She blew Father a kiss, hoping the wintry air would carry it afar, and lay down next to the softening flames, savoring its last embers.

It was the wind that woke her. Ceaseless, cruel, crippling, a foreshadowing of something hideous. The girl looked out the window, and a tumble of golden leaves blinded her vision. Hastily, she rubbed the musty window of number 42 and peered outside once again. To her surprise, on top of the broken bodies lay an unfamiliar face, his body hunched over, face a determined frown, and in his hand was clutched a paintbrush. He must have passed away in the dead of the night, the girl’s pensive thoughts reasoned, and as she began to turn away, another curious notion struck her. Slowly, her gaze leveled the graffiti wall, and the dilapidated wall looked back at her with stubborn resolve. Amongst the lazy scribbles, a word appeared, newly written, in the colors of the sun and the sky. The girl read: hope. Her mouth wordlessly scraped the thin air, but a warmth gathered in the depth of her soul.

Suddenly, the alarms blared loud and clear: danger. The raucous reverberated across the neighborhood, juxtaposed by an instantaneous scramble of people retreating underground. Just as the girl turned to run, she spotted a white dove gliding and landed, hurt, on the desolate street. And so, her kind heart called, incessantly, until the girl flung open the door, and stepped out onto the walkway. The sirens blared louder. As if in slow motion, she dashed towards the dove, a blur of adrenaline pumped through her veins. The girl knelt next to the dove. She touched it gently. The cacophony of danger roared beneath her eardrums, but the girl didn’t care, she hugged the dove close. Something dropped onto the pavement, but in that moment, they were timeless. After an hourly second, the girl peered downwards, and there lay a leaf, a golden leaf, the last leaf. Inscribed upon it: hope.

The street became a whirlpool, and the girl knelt in the center with the shrill siren cry reverberating through the cold wintry air. Her brown hair whipped daggers at her face, however, she was unafraid. Still clutching the shivering dove close to her warm chest, the girl looked upwards, in one yearning gaze, her ocean eyes met the sun and the sky. Hope, her eyes said. Hope, her voice repeated. As if savoring its warming glow, the sun let go of its roaring torrent of heat, and thus the sky grew ever brighter.

Then, the sirens stopped, the wind ceased, and the people peeked out from their musty windows. The barren branches of the trees erupted into a flurry of blue and green, and the wintry air gave out a scarce taste of spring. The girl knelt there, on the street, amidst the beautiful commotion, nursing the dove. She smiled. And it spread infectious fevers into the eyes and ears of the neighbors.

After what seemed like forever, the girl stood up, one arm still wrapped around the dove, and walked over to the graffiti wall. As her gaze leveled the maze of dazzling words, she reached up; Standing on her tiptoes, the girl wrote in the color of the sun and sky: Nadiya - hope.