In the frozen remnants of a world gone awry, a solitary child sits, an emblem of lost innocence amidst the aftermath. Dressed in protective gear, the gas mask conceals a face that has witnessed too much for such tender years. The room, blanketed in snow, seems to echo the cold desolation of the outside world. Yet, amidst this bleakness, a defiant burst of color: yellow flowers, inexplicably thriving, encircle the child. Their hands, bare and cold, are folded neatly in their lap, a gesture of silent prayer or perhaps a mournful goodbye to a world that once was