A semi-detached house, a lot of clutter. A woman in her thirties stands by the window, eating. The movement of her jaw is continuous, her comings and goings silent. Her meal is almost over. Agave is chewing on her son, Pentheus, and with him all the memories of her life resurface, which she carefully lines up on a shelf. This is the last time we are in her home. The weather is fine today.