Tanya Adams

The door takes them to the main area of a ruined church: pews and benches are missing, the altar is empty and dusty, ruined by time and weather. Outside a broken window nearby the sun is setting, a gorgeous orange ball at which they can look directly. That night, the wind would blow in to add another layer of dust to what had been burying the small dead city for the last three years.

The whitish dust lay over everything, covering the streets and the open spaces, starting the work of hiding the small houses that had been crushed and made into rubble by soviet artillery and their massive tanks.

It is quiet. Like a cemetery. "And here we are."