About a bloodied sneaker in a puddle, thrown off with the blast wave. Just one sneaker.
About the bodies on the asphalt, slowly rotting in the drizzle.
“I couldn’t bury them, too little time, the shelling… God, I couldn’t even cover them with something,” he whined. “Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Even now, even here. Hands tied with a tape. Blood on the bricks. Bullet holes. The lonely sneaker in a puddle.”