Two aging bodies occupy the space, out of place, with memory preventing them from resting. Traces of a diffuse whole, homemade meals and a microphone, a song that crosses time. A terrace as a border. At home, nothing is always and everything is still, in an impertinent and tenacious now, present and defunct. A domestic film, of ghosts and cinema, an eminently vitalist story until death, but not a step further.