“Coming back to life” arrived like a cautious sunrise: warm, delayed, and carrying paperwork. The families stepped up to microphones and distributed thanks with the precision of pharmacists dispensing hope. Some thanks bounced, some cleared, and one handshake was put on a no-fly list for trying to smuggle in optics.

Reporters juggled clipboards as gratitude encountered a minor customs delay. Officials in reflective vests labeled the cargo: Relief, Updates, and Highly Flammable Emotions. A smaller crate marked Handshakes was redirected to Secondary Inspection for “overly performative behavior.”

At the press conference, microphones developed selective hearing and tuned out any sentence with the phrase “strategic embrace.” Translation apps offered new options: “warm acknowledgement,” “polite silence,” and “we’re good, thanks.” A stray camera lens tried to emote and was escorted off the premises for unauthorized empathy.

The prime minister arrived with a laminated itinerary labeled Empathy, 10:00–10:07. A staffer unfurled a timeline where milestones glittered like confetti and accountability was penciled in for “later-ish.” The handshake attempted an early release, only to discover the families had already granted one—to themselves.

At crossings and ports where policy becomes weather, the forecast called for scattered applause with a chance of side-eye. Diesel idled, documents blinked, and a rumor made excellent time by hitchhiking on a convoy of sighs. I logged it all in my notebook: Arrivals at 11:14, gratitude at 11:16, questions at 11:16:01.

One family rolled out a thank-you basket shaped like a ceasefire and twice as fragile. Inside, there was a note, a hug measured to spec, and a nonstick diplomatic handshake glove. “We’re grateful,” they said, as the glove slid off the table and refused to be picked up without context.

Analysts assembled on cable to explain the chemistry of courtesy. They concluded that refusing a handshake is not a snub but a standard safety procedure in a high-politics spill. Apply kitty litter to the talking points, ventilate the room, and wait for the fumes of narrative to dissipate.

Markets reacted instantly: Gratitude futures climbed like a cat on fresh curtains. Approval ratings performed a convincing impression of a folding chair. The Index of Public Patience blinked twice, filed for overtime, and requested better snacks.

In the suburbs, doorbells announced reunions with the subtlety of thunder. A cousin sent a battery-powered gratitude bouquet, which lit up whenever someone tried to say “unity” without receipts. The bouquet refused to turn off until an adult signed for realism.

Meanwhile, government spokespeople held a press gaggle and thanked the families for their “feedback in this dynamic thankscape.” The algorithm attempted to add “maybe later” to a handshake invitation and accidentally scheduled three press conferences in the past. Everyone agreed to keep the timeline on airplane mode.

At the port, a clerk stamped Return-to-Life visas with quiet ceremony. The stamp squeaked like a bedtime door; no one complained. Documents cleared, diesel sighed, and the camera finally learned to zoom without editorializing.

As evening arrived, the families kept the essential promise: breathing, hourly, on schedule. The unshaken handshake now resides in Lost and Found between a lanyard and last month’s narrative. If unclaimed within 30 days, customs will auction it off with two souvenirs and one dry aside that somehow keeps making it through.