It was a night train from Kyiv to Lviv. I got on last, a little tired, with thoughts that didn’t give me peace. Opposite me was a woman, about sixty-five. Gray-haired, with deep wrinkles that gave the impression that she had seen a lot. She was knitting something that looked like a child’s sweater and at first glance seemed completely immersed in herself.

We didn’t speak for almost an hour. And then she suddenly looked up and asked:
- You’re tired of yourself, aren’t you?

I didn’t know what to say. But she had already started to tell me. About her youth, about the war that took her husband, about how she raised two children alone and baked cakes to sell to survive. And also about how later, after fifty, she learned to laugh again and even fell in love.

“The most regretful thing is not about the losses,” she said. “It’s about those moments when you were afraid to live truly. When you were silent, even though you wanted to scream. When you stayed, even though you wanted to leave. Don’t be afraid to be uncomfortable. Be afraid not to live.”

We talked almost all night. I listened and caught every word. Her strength was calm, mature, without pathos. Just real.