As dawn broke over Kyiv, the air reeked of smoke and shattered lives. Families pulled loved ones from the rubble with bare, bleeding hands. It was the kind of devastation Ukraine had feared, but not grown numb to: the deadliest Russian assault of the year, and one that arrived while the world’s most powerful leaders met—thousands of miles away—without speaking a word of it.

More than 440 drones and over 30 cruise missiles swept across Ukrainian skies overnight. Kyiv took the brunt of the blow. A nine-story residential block in the Solomianskyi district was reduced to scorched stone and twisted metal. Eighteen people lost their lives. Over 150 were wounded. Among the dead: a nurse, a teacher, and a three-year-old boy named Dima who had just started saying his ABCs.

President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, in a soot-streaked flak jacket, addressed his nation with fury and sorrow. “This is not war—it is terror. And it is met with silence.”

That silence, for many Ukrainians, was louder than the explosions. In Canada, where G7 leaders had gathered to talk about global priorities—from inflation to climate change—Ukraine was mentioned only in passing. President Trump, attending briefly before departing early, reignited controversy by calling once again for Russia’s return to the G7. The timing stung.

“It felt like betrayal,” said Larysa Kovalchuk, a bakery owner in Kyiv whose storefront windows shattered in the blast. “We’re still here, still bleeding, but the world seems tired of watching.”

Hospitals are overwhelmed. Blood shortages are critical. Volunteers queue in the early hours to donate, some barely able to stand themselves. One young medic, Andrii, wiped ash from his forehead and asked simply, “How do you bandage a country?”

Outside, church bells rang for the dead. And still, no pause. Air raid sirens wail daily across Ukrainian cities like an unrelenting metronome of dread.

International analysts warn that “war fatigue” is setting in among allies. But in Kyiv, fatigue isn’t theoretical—it’s physical. “I haven’t slept in two days,” said Oksana Demchuk, whose parents’ apartment was destroyed. “Not from fear. From helping dig out strangers.”

Yet somehow, Ukrainians persist. In the smoldering wreckage, someone placed a single sunflower—Ukraine’s national flower—on a broken window ledge. It was wilted. But it stood.