After months of arithmetic so bleak it fogs the calculator, the world discovers a statistic that screams: tens of thousands of children gone. We pause for a moment of silence and then promote the silence to foreign policy.

In shelters where windows learned to be doors, the smallest survivors practice breathing like it’s contraband. Meanwhile, panels debate synonyms for “stop,” as if the right adverb might jam a missile in midair.

Uniforms hold press conferences to announce that precision now means “the crater knew its destiny.” A map is displayed, and somewhere off the legend, a conscience fails to load.

Aid convoys play a game of humanitarian Jenga where every checkpoint removes another block. Ceasefires are issued like coupons that expire before they leave the printer.

Relief kits arrive labeled “resilience,” which is optimism packaged in bubble wrap. A volunteer produces a pediatric comfort backpack, as though you can unzip quiet from a siren.

Reporters collect quotes like butterflies, except the net is a flak jacket and the specimens keep taking the microphone. We narrate caution while the present shouts, and our verbs show up wearing helmets and a deadline.

Diplomats reconvene the Ministry of Firmly Worded Nouns. They “urge,” “condemn,” and “express” with the energy of a smoke alarm asking if anyone else smells smoke.

Disruptors propose an app that notifies you two seconds before impact, sponsored by ambient dread. An algorithm suggests relocating schools to clouds because “the ground is having a difficult quarter.”

Lawyers staple accountability to a moving target and call it due process because the footnote says so. A consultant unveils a compliance-grade ceasefire timer, which counts down to zero and then politely asks if you’d like to extend your free trial of oxygen.

Leaders redraw red lines daily until they become pink suggestions and eventually beige whispers. Photo ops feature eyebrows set to 7.2 on the Concern Scale, followed by a helicopter exporting the mood.

The orphans hold on to each other because furniture migrates at the sound of engines. They are “always scared,” a phrase that should be a siren but retired early for lack of bipartisan support.

We chant “never again” like a loyalty card that keeps expiring in the checkout line of history. If the miracle is out for delivery, it’s stuck at a checkpoint marked Tomorrow; in the meantime, please click “Remind me later” on the ceasefire timer and pretend later still exists.