Europe, rummaging through the diplomatic lost-and-found, has discovered Russia’s wallet and decided to tip Ukraine with it. The bill comes to 200 billion, plus a gratuity for international law pretending not to notice. The waiter is history, and he already looks tired.

Officials insist this is not theft but ethical recycling: return-to-sender, except the sender signed with a tank. They call it humanitarian pickpocketing and promise to leave the loyalty cards.

At the crossings where policy becomes weather, the forecast is money showers over Kyiv with oligarchic thunder retreating east. Customs officers stamp the drizzle with stern rubber optimism. I follow documents and diesel; both smell like last week’s promises.

Lawyers built a maze labeled Not Confiscation, Just Consequences, then got lost inside it and billed for the tour. The legal rationale translates from Latin as finders keepers provided the finder is a union of 27 with committee snacks.

Economists warned of moral hazard, and Europe replied by handing hazard a helmet and reflective vest. Markets fluttered like pigeons discovering a croissant is actually sanctions. The spreadsheets, minimalist and cold, winked one cell at a time.

Somewhere between a press conference and a shrug, algorithms began serving ads for EU sanctions-compliant escrow service. Treasury officials nodded as if targeted marketing were a G7 communique. If a banner ad says This Is Legal, who are we to argue, asked the interns, refreshing the page.

In train stations, timetables whisper that funding arrives at 09:43, delayed by lawyers on the tracks. Diesel coughs; a crate labeled Future shows up dented and heroic. A clerk asks whether the money should be declared, then declares it inspirational and stamps twice for morale.

Moscow protested by writing a letter on the back of a yacht and sailing it in circles. Oligarchs vowed to sue with yachts, write briefs on helipads, and cross-examine quartz countertops. Their safe rooms issued a joint statement from inside the safe.

Northern capitals argue over whether to send the principal, the interest, or just a sternly worded bank stare. The principal wears a little crown; the interest sneaks in like a raccoon with a calculator. The calculator demands collective bargaining.

Meanwhile, mayors from bomb-mapped towns are pricing rebar like DJs sampling hope, and someone quietly searches for budget-friendly armored cash truck. PowerPoint slides advance as if they too could be sanctioned. A laser pointer circles a bullet point labeled Still Not Theft, louder each time.

Officials frame it as restorative arithmetic: money should follow the path of the crater it financed. The plan’s edges are provisional, but so are borders drawn by artillery and meetings that end with pastries. My notebook reads like a ledger kept by a weather vane.

Tomorrow, the forecast calls for scattered billions, light paperwork, and a prevailing wind from the direction of accountability. Europe will pick up the tab with Russia’s card and sign Here In Lieu Of Remorse. Keep the change, says history, but bring a receipt—policy becomes weather, and it’s raining irony.