Winter settles differently in Kyiv. Snow does not simply fall; it lingers, packing itself into the seams of sidewalks and the quiet between sirens. In the early hours, when the city is still half-asleep, breath turns visible and windows glow faintly against the cold. It is in this pause—between darkness and daylight—that the damage becomes clearest, and the ordinary work of endurance resumes.
One apartment building in the capital carries the marks of this season more heavily than most. Its façade is broken open, as if the structure itself inhaled sharply and never quite exhaled. Inside, stairwells echo with careful footsteps. Residents move slowly, mindful of debris, mindful too of one another. Someone carries a kettle down several flights. Another checks a door that no longer seals fully against the cold. “We are all used to this,” one resident says quietly, not as a declaration of strength, but as a simple accounting of time.
This winter has been among the hardest Kyiv has faced since Russia’s invasion began. Missile and drone strikes have repeatedly targeted the city, aiming at energy infrastructure and residential areas alike. Power outages arrive without ceremony, sometimes lasting hours, sometimes longer. Heating systems falter under strain. Repairs follow quickly when they can, but the cold does not wait for schedules or supplies.
Within the building, life compresses into smaller, warmer spaces. Families gather in interior rooms. Candles and battery lamps replace ceiling lights. Phones are charged when electricity returns, then rationed again. The routines are practiced now, almost automatic. Residents speak of neighbors checking in on each other after blasts, of shared extension cords, of borrowed space heaters passed from room to room.
Kyiv’s authorities have worked to stabilize energy supplies, reinforcing air defenses and urging conservation during peak hours. Engineers and utility workers labor through nights made longer by blackouts. Despite the strikes, much of the city continues to function—shops open when power allows, public transport runs with adjustments, and shelters fill and empty according to alerts. The rhythm is uneven, but it persists.
What stands out inside the damaged building is not shock, but a subdued attentiveness. People listen closely to the weather forecast, to updates from the front, to the sound of generators starting nearby. Windows are covered with plastic sheeting, taped carefully against drafts. It is not hope exactly that fills these spaces, but something adjacent: an expectation of continuity, however altered.
As winter advances, the building remains standing, if scarred. Its residents remain too, shaping their days around interruptions that have become part of the landscape. Outside, snow softens the edges of destruction, briefly disguising it. Inside, life continues in fragments—warm tea, shared silence, the steady belief that morning will come again, even if it arrives without power.
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Sources Reuters Associated Press United Nations Kyiv City Administration International Energy Agency