The morning of December 29th in Volgograd began like any other: the hum of early commuters, the rhythmic clatter of trains, and the crisp chill of winter in the air. My wife and I had planned to head to the railway station to buy our return tickets. It was supposed to be a simple errand. But true to form, I couldn’t peel myself off the mattress.She had nudged me awake several times, frustration mounting with each attempt. "We need to go," she insisted, her tone a mix of urgency and exasperation."Five more minutes," I mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around me. Morning had never been my forte, and this was no exception.Her glare was palpable, but she eventually gave up and sat by the window, arms crossed, waiting for me to stir. By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, laziness had turned into procrastination. We decided we’d go later—what was the rush, anyway?And that decision, as inconsequential as it seemed at the time, saved our lives.The explosion came as we were prepar...
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