He Could Have Kept It

But he didn’t. And if you’re still here, it means part of you wouldn’t have either

I DON’T KNOW HIS NAME. But I need to tell you about him anyway.

Because if you’re still here, maybe some part of this story already belongs to you.

It happened on a road you’ll never see.

One of those places you can’t find on a map unless you were born there.

A name no one remembers. A town in Ukraine too far from the war to be filmed, but not far enough to be safe.

Too quiet to be loud. Too broken to be news.

That’s where he was walking.

End of shift. Late. Cold. In a dark and silent country road.

He had a flashlight. Probably an old one, that flickers when you move it too fast. The kind people here keep using until the batteries truly give up.

That’s when he saw something in the dirt.

A wallet. Heavy.

Looked like it had been there a while.

He looked around. No one.

He opened it. Carefully. Quietly. Expecting fake notes, scraps, or anything else.

But inside, money. Neatly folded bills of Ukrainian hryvinias.

More than he’d held in years, maybe ever.

About 300 dollars.

In this country, that’s more than a month’s salary for many people.

Enough to feed your family. Enough to replace coats that doesn’t close anymore. Enough to stop walking in the frost, and take the bus instead.

Enough to rest a little easier. Just enough to believe, for a moment, that something good had finally found a way to you.

But he didn’t stop. He closed the wallet and found the only café with a light still on. Charged his phone and called the number handwritten on a paper tucked behind the bills…

.

A woman soon arrived out of breath. She probably thought it was gone forever.

She tried to give him something. Not much. Just a thank you enough to buy real food. Or rest. Or just sleep a little better.

He shook his head and said, “You dropped it. You picked it up again. That’s enough.”

And then he just walked away.

This is just one of those stories that people tell during war. They pass from village to village. You hear them at tables, or in kitchens. And sometimes you even wonder if they’re true.

But sometimes, they are too beautiful to be made up.

And this one I believe.

I believe because I’ve known people like him. I believe because I’ve seen places like this.

I believe because war hasn’t taken everything from us.

You don’t know his name. Neither do I.

But you know him, don’t you?

Because you’ve likely been him. Or wanted to be.

Or hoped you still would be, if it were you walking down that road, with tired shoes and a heavy silence.

And no one watching.

In that forgotten corner of Ukraine where Russia not only kills with missiles, but also with cold and hunger.

Where the poor are the first to feel the war.

Like in every war.

He could have thought: I need this more than whoever lost it.

He could have said: the world hasn’t been kind to me either.

But he didn’t.

Not because he’s a saint.

Because he’s Ukrainian.

We don’t forget each other, and something in us still holds.

It could be because our grandparents fixed radios with sewing needles.

Or because we watched our mothers cut slices of bread thinner when guests came over.

Or because we’ve all needed help at some point. And sometimes it never came, but we learned to help anyway.

We are not perfect here. We forget things.

We lose our tempers. We mess up. A lot. More than we want to.

All the time.

But we don’t walk past someone crying, and we don’t leave people behind.

Even now. Even after everything.

.

And this is not just our story, but yours too.

Because something in you didn’t fold either.

Not yet. Because you're still here.

Somewhere tonight, that man is walking home again.

Same road. Same flashlight. Maybe still nothing in his pockets.

But something stayed with him. And something tells me it stays with you too.

With you who are feeling our pain, even though the only missiles you've seen are in headlines.

Even though your hands have never swept glass off a child’s pillow.

The kind of pride you don’t announce, but definitely stays with you long after anyone’s watching.

And I hope this man knows it mattered.

That someone noticed. That someone sat down and tried to hold it.

That tonight, someone like you read it.

And remembered what kind of people still live here.

And didn’t look away.

🇺🇦

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🔖 There’s no team behind this, just me, writing from Ukraine. And every paid subscription helps me keep this open for everyone who needs to read these stories. Thank you so much for considering it if you can.

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📖 “The Divine Comedian: Ukraine’s Journey Through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise” is more than my first book: it’s Ukraine, seen from inside the fire, and the hope that refuses to die. Download it for free (PDF & Kindle) and see what survival really looks like.