The church in Dobropillia, a town in Eastern Ukraine, was never grand. It stood behind the town square, tucked between a row of low houses and an overgrown fence. No bell. No stained glass. Just a white-painted chapel, plain and peaceful. For three years, through shellings and blackouts and the long, quiet dread of a creeping war, it remained open. It was symbolic for locals. A friend of mine visited the priest each month since the full scale invasion began. She would ask him why he hadn’t left.