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The war is finally over for him. He has had enough of it. The war taught him to see who is real and who is rotten. It made the memory merciless. How can you forget the guys who will never see home again? Mykola Havryliuk was not naïve: life had rubbed him hard. He did not expect any honours. He didn't expect anything special, but he had no idea that people could be so intolerant of everything that distinguishes a man who lived in a dugout for months, drank water from puddles and forgot about dry bedding. They can easily label him as an insulting "avatar", "murderer", "mentally disturbed". His journey home was dramatic and even adventurous. And there, everything went wrong. It was hard to get used to even the asphalt under his feet. Something inexplicable alienated his wife, took away his understanding with his sons. He was no longer welcome at work. The walls of bureaucracy were insurmountable. He became a stranger to everyone, no one needed him. He was doomed to be alone with his war. "I should have died," he thought. And he snapped at injustice like an animal. Very suddenly, he was thrown under the shards of human indifference - this war caught up with him so inappropriately and ruthlessly. And passed a verdict. To everyone.