That morning, the workshop smelled of burnt coffee and the damp earth of paint pots. Outside, the Dnipro was a milky ribbon; inside, we were asked to close our eyes and describe the river without naming it. I heard "breath," "mother," "road." When I opened my eyes again, my sheet of paper was still blank—and it was this blankness that frightened me, then set me free. I began with a single horizontal stroke, then a second, more shaky line on top, like two banks that haven't yet met. The facilitator, Yuliia, placed her hand on my shoulder without saying a word. On the third layer, I ground the limestone I had brought back on Sunday; the grain sizzled under the brush. The participants from Odesa, on the cracked screen at the back, held up their own sheets of paper: different rivers, the same thirst to hold something together. On my way out, I looked at the real Dnipro — it wasn't at all like my paint, and that was perfect.

"River Inspiration" Workshop, Podil, February 2026. Twelve people were present, three joined virtually from Odesa. We practiced the 4-7-8 breathing exercise before any painting. Maksym arrived late (extended alert); he apologized with a smile and sat at the back. His work became the most luminous of the session—proof that being late isn't a fault when the city holds bodies captive in concrete cages. We hung the sheets of paper on a line above the radiator to dry; they flapped like makeshift flags. I approved the piece the next morning, still imbued with the smell of the basement.