At 8:30 pm on Sunday, November 17, an explosion was heard in the center of Sumy. The kamikaze missiles and drones that strike this northeastern Ukrainian city usually do so only at dawn, when its residents are in bed. That evening, however, Russian forces had decided to attack when people were still in the streets, getting ready for dinner, meeting friends, or watching TV. Just 20 minutes after the bombing, ambulances were setting up along the main road near the residential area. The first six bodies had already been brought there, covered with emergency blankets and bed sheets. Tatiana knelt beside her teenage daughter, Anastasia, 14, who was killed in the bombing. A little further away, Igor grieved over the body of his son, Ilya, 9, whose face was already white.

In the apartment building's courtyard, civilians gazed at the impact that the missile had left. All around, for hundreds of meters, windows were shattered, walls were scarred, and torched cars let off smoke. Floodlights illuminated the square, where a children's playground had been installed. Rescue workers and civilians were still evacuating residents whose bodies were lacerated with shards of glass. Some were seriously wounded. Cries of pain came through blown-out windows and echoed through the neighborhood. On the upper floors, a woman screamed in her apartment, a grandmother had been badly injured in the leg and a young woman lay motionless in the bathroom. The neighborhood was in shock. Some residents, collapsing, were being held up by those around them. Others cried out in agony and incomprehension. It took rescue workers several hours to count the victims: 12 dead and over 90 injured.

In keeping with Orthodox tradition, Anastasia's funeral took place three days after the tragedy, on Wednesday, November 20. Many had come to bid farewell to the teenager, who had returned to her hometown a year ago after fleeing to France at the start of the Russian invasion on February 24, 2022. Her friends from her neighborhood and school were there: teenagers with serious, defeated faces. So were her close friends and family, most of whom were holding candles. Two coins had been placed on Anastasia's closed eyes, and she was covered with flowers. Clergymen sang funeral hymns and spread incense to sanctify her final resting place.

The procession finally started for the cemetery, where tombstones stretched as far as the eye could see. Some graves had fresh flowers that suggested they were very recent. The crowd gathered around the open casket. Tatiana and Roman, Anastasia’s stepfather, were kissing her one last time when a long blast, as loud as it was sudden, interrupted the ceremony. A Russian cruise missile had just passed a few dozen meters above the cortege, causing panic. Some people threw themselves to the ground. The piercing, repetitive air-raid siren, broadcast from the city's loudspeakers, froze the assembly in place a few moments longer. But they had to act fast. Men took hold of the coffin and swiftly lowered it into the ground under the gaze of Anastasia's mother and stepfather. It was exactly 3 pm when the gravedigger affixed the cross. The plaque read: "Here lies Borovyk Anastasia Evgenivna, 29. 08. 2010 - 17. 11. 2024. Eternal memory."

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