"Viktor stood in his tattered uniform, boots sinking into the cold mud that clung to the shattered streets. By day, his voice rang with confident orders and half-hearted jokes—tiny sparks of humanity in a city battered by thunderous artillery. Yet in those fragile predawn hours, when the roar of cannons paused like a held breath, Viktor’s mind drifted to simpler times: the warmth of a kitchen lamp, the smell of homemade stew, the rise and fall of voices at the dinner table. Those recollections pulled harder at his heart than any physical wound. He’d heard of group therapy sessions and community gatherings—small sanctuaries born out of chaos—where soldiers, families, and neighbors found comfort in shared stories and rituals. Such collective support was a lifeline against the silent onslaught of anxieties. Still, each memory of lost embraces threatened to topple the balance he worked so fiercely to maintain. Maybe, he mused with a wry grin, if laughter can’t win wars, at least it can make the trenches a little less dreary—though he secretly wished someone would invent bulletproof boots for the soul."