On the war's sixth day, Adi Baruch donned her uniform, headed south, only to meet her fate on the journey. Nebo, her partner, proposed post-funeral, driven by a need to utter those words. Amidst the grief, Adi's mother found a poignant poem on her computer—a heartrending farewell: "I'm sorry for the sorrow I caused, know that I'm in a good place."

Adi's last photo. "Refused to stay at home, decided to go down south and contribute what she could" (courtesy of the family)

In the quiet town of Sderot, the story of Sergeant (res.) Adi Baruch unfolded with a poignant twist of fate. She wasn't slated to return to the reserves, but an unwavering determination ignited within her. Against the odds and the absence of a vacant position, Adi insisted on being called up, leaving a mother's heart heavy with both worry and pride.

A legacy of service marked her journey, as she, an operations sergeant in KML, donned the uniform with unwavering pride. "She refused to stay at home," her mother, Orit, recounted with a mixture of admiration and concern. In the last photo sent to her friend Nebo, taken on the way to the base, the joy radiating from Adi's face spoke volumes about her commitment.

The sixth day of the war brought a moment frozen in time—a father and daughter captured together in uniform, smiles etched on their faces, blissful ignorance of the storm that loomed. Little did they know, tragedy would soon strike with a cruel swiftness.

A chilling message on Telegram shattered the calm—a 30-year-old man and a 20-year-old girl, Adi, gravely injured by a missile hit in Sderot. Panic seized Orit as she rushed to contact her daughter, only to be met with silence. A somber revelation awaited them at Barzilai Hospital in Ashkelon—Adi's final destination.

"We were sure she was injured, that we were returning home with her," Orit recalled, her voice tinged with grief. The reality of Adi's death enveloped them, a bitter truth that defied comprehension. At the hospital, Adi's commander revealed her poignant request—for one more evening with her family before rejoining the reserves.

The funeral on Sunday painted a heart-wrenching scene—a peaceful Adi in her coffin, the echo of her last smile frozen in time. Nebo Yanai, her partner of six years, shattered by grief, knelt and proposed, a symbol of love that transcended even death. Plans of a wedding, a ring already purchased, now a testament to a love unfulfilled.

In the depths of sorrow, a glimpse into Adi's computer unveiled a poetic testament to life and acceptance. "And if I ever die before my time comes..."—words penned in January, now a hauntingly prophetic farewell. Orit found solace in the lines, a message from beyond the grave urging them to celebrate life.

Adi's passion for photography, a source of joy for her and those around her, now echoes in the silence. At 15, she began capturing life through a lens, turning a hobby into a profession. Her diary, once filled with promises to photograph weddings, now serves as a painful reminder of dreams left unfulfilled.

In the wake of tragedy, Adi's words resonate—a plea for celebration, a promise to cherish every moment. As Orit and the family grapple with grief, they find comfort in a daughter's lasting legacy—a legacy of joy, love, and an enduring call to embrace life's fleeting beauty.