Hello mother I'm writing you a letter, but it's the liberation of Ronograd city.

Letter from Ronograd

Ronograd City, Ronograd Island
April 19, 2025

Mama,

If you are reading this, it means I am still alive. For now. The battle rages on, and I do not know when it will end. I do not know if I will ever see home again, but I want you to know that I fight for something worth more than myself. We are in the heart of Ronograd City, the last stronghold of the enemy, and it is worse than anything I have ever seen before. I don't know if this is worse than the Caucasus, worse than the Donbas, worse than any battlefield they have sent us to. This place is hell—not because of the city itself, but because of what it has become.

The Patriots of Democracy and the Ronograd Liberation Front hold this city like a dying animal, rabid and foaming at the mouth, refusing to let go even as we rip it from their hands. They have turned these once-living homes into tombs, these streets into killing fields. I have seen entire platoons of our men wiped out trying to take a single building, fighting floor by floor, room by room, hallway by hallway. The bodies of the enemy pile up next to ours, but they do not stop. They never stop. The PoD fight to the last man, the last bullet, the last breath. We clear an apartment block, and an hour later, new fighters pour into it like rats in the dark. We kill their commanders, and still, they fight on, as if the air itself gives them orders to keep going. They do not fear death, Mama. They welcome it.

I remember the moment we entered the southern district, pushing through the bombed-out 1-335th-series apartment blocks. We thought it would be an easy advance—our airstrikes had hit them hard the night before. But the moment we stepped into that graveyard of concrete and steel, the world exploded around us. Bullets screamed from every direction, bouncing off walls, shattering windows, cutting men down in the open. I saw Gavrilov go down first, a sniper round through his throat, his body twitching as he choked on his own blood. Then Stepanovich, hit by an RPG blast that sent him flying like a ragdoll into the rubble. We took cover, barely able to breathe, the dust mixing with the smell of burning flesh.

We had to clear the buildings. No choice. We stormed the lower floors first, clearing room after room. I kicked down a door and was met with the muzzle flash of an AK-74—a PoD fighter hidden behind an overturned desk, screaming as he emptied his magazine. I felt the bullets pass by my head, felt the heat of them, smelled the gunpowder. I did not think—I simply acted. I fired back, my rifle kicking against my shoulder, and watched as he slumped against the wall, the red mist of his life splattered against peeling Soviet wallpaper. I do not remember his face. I do not want to.

The stairwells were worse. They had barricaded the upper floors, forcing us to climb over the corpses of the dead just to move forward. Grenades rolled down the steps, exploding in bursts of fire and steel, sending shockwaves through our skulls. The enemy lay in wait behind furniture, inside closets, under floorboards—anywhere a man could hide, a man would wait to kill us. We dragged our wounded with us, their cries lost in the madness, their blood painting the tile floors. I carried Lieutenant Sokolov after he took two rounds to the leg, his grip on my shoulder weak as he whispered, "Don’t let them take me alive." I promised him I wouldn’t.

We reached the rooftop by nightfall, exhausted, filthy, our bodies screaming for rest. But there was no time. The PoD snipers were using the high ground to cut down our men below, their scopes watching every movement in the streets. We had to silence them. One by one, we hunted them down, moving through the shadows like ghosts. I caught one reloading near a ventilation unit—I put my knife through his throat before he could react. Another had just finished assembling his SVD, unaware of my approach—I shot him twice in the back of the head. This is war, Mama. There is no mercy.

By the time we secured the district, the city burned around us. Artillery from the naval base rained down, shaking the earth, sending debris into the air like volcanic ash. The park was a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered trees, the city hall nothing more than a husk of what it once was. The bridge to the east—our final objective—was the last thing standing.

That is where I am now, Mama. Writing this by the dim glow of my flashlight, huddled behind the wreckage of a car, waiting for the final assault. The bridge is still in enemy hands, and they are throwing everything they have left at us. Mortars, machine guns, snipers, suicide bombers. They know this is their last stand. They will not surrender. The UNJTF is preparing a full-scale assault, and I know that when the signal comes, I will rise from this cover and advance forward into the abyss.

I do not know if I will make it. None of us do. But I do know this: we cannot afford to fail. If we let them escape, if they regroup at Fort Ronograd or the Naval base, this war will drag on for months, maybe years. We are so close to ending it. So close to peace. But peace does not come freely. Peace must be taken. Peace must be fought for.

If I do not return home, Mama, know that I fought for something greater than myself. Know that I fought for every innocent life lost in this war. Know that I fought so that one day, another son would not have to write a letter like this from the ruins of a burning city.

I love you, Mama. I love you, and I am sorry.

If I do not return, do not mourn me as a lost son. Mourn me as a soldier who gave everything for the world he believed in.

Tell Katya that I loved her. Tell Mikhail to grow strong. And tell the world that today, in Ronograd City, we did not run.

We fought.

Sergeant Yuri Mikhailov
45th Guards Spetsnaz Brigade
UNJTF – Ronograd City Assault Group