«The project's due in, like, two weeks, and I'm just… staring at the timeline like it's a blank page. The script's done, the footage is all there, the edit's almost finished — and yeah, that almost is the whole problem. You can't lock picture if you don't even get what your film is about. And right now, I honestly don't.»
A young man and a girl stepped out of the subway car and climbed the stairs, sheltered from sun and weather by glass set into a green iron frame. Leaving the platform behind, they emerged onto a wide, noisy street. In one direction, brick apartment blocks stretched toward the horizon, their red fire escapes clinging to the walls; in the other, a colonnade of trees led the eye toward a row of private houses with porches, pitched roofs, and chimney stacks hidden just behind the leaves. They walked that way, but at the first chance turned onto a cross street — narrower, quieter, set at a right angle to the first. Here they could speak without raising their voices, even if the detour made the walk a little longer.
The rumble of cars and the subway faded by degrees — unlike the young man's breathing, which stayed unsteady not from the climb but from the nerves gathering before his story.
«Originally, it was meant to be this uncontrolled stream of consciousness — kind of Lynch meets Bergman, you know? Reality, dream, hallucination, all mixed up. The mind kinda drifts through memories and fantasies, trying to sort them out, to pin down the present, to figure out who the hell it even is and where. "Deleuze's time-image". By the end, the timeline straightens out, the fragments settle, and reality reclaims its ground — along with the irreversible. Perfect symmetry.»
His dark-brown eyes under heavy brows slipped, as they often did, into that state of inward distance, fixed on something only he could see. He stopped walking without quite noticing. His thick black curls fell in tiers to his shoulders, rising and sinking in the spring wind. His long face — sharp cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose — somehow gives him strength instead of imperfection. A few days' stubble softened the line of his jaw.
«That was the plan» he came back to himself and moved on. «So picture this: I'm in the edit room, scrubbing through footage, keeping that structure in my head — and suddenly I realize… that structure isn't unique. There are, like, dozens. I counted maybe fifteen versions before I gave up. It's like… a kaleidoscope, you know? The pieces are the same, but every time you twist the tube, there's a new pattern. And each pattern is right. Each one balanced, rhythmic, beautiful. Of course it is. The same thing was happening on my screen. The frames began rearranging themselves. Every shot pulled a different continuum around it — a new logic, a new rhythm — and still, they all led to the same end.»
He was twenty, yet there was already something adult about him — a quiet gravity you see in people who already know the worth of time. He hardly gestured as he spoke; only now and then did he pull his hands from the pockets of his dark cargo pants, splattered with traces of paint and gaffer tape, to underline a point. And then, in his hands and forearms — bare where the sleeves of his unbuttoned overshirt of thin denim were rolled back — it was clear how tense he was. His skin carried a permanent sun tint, like he's always just come back from shooting outdoors. He was tall — over six feet — and lean in a way that suggested endurance rather than fragility. His muscles showed not from the gym, but from long hours hauling lights, tripods, and old Arriflex cases up narrow stairwells.
«Outside, it was pitch black; my coffee was gone; I thought, okay, I'm just overworked. Crashed on the couch. But when I woke up, it was all still there. New connections, new reflections every time I blinked.
Yeah. Just like that. And still, they all led to the same point…»
He fell silent. The story was over; the girl understood as much from the way he didn't come to a stop but simply glued his gaze to his heavy, worn-out boots.
She was twenty, too, yet there was still that same sense of bright alertness, as if her body remembers movement as play. Slender, quick, a little restless. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under daylight, and yet touched with a soft blush that appears after a short run. Her light chestnut hair, naturally wavy, framed her face in loose strands that were always half-messy. A subtle aura of childlike curiosity seemed to hover around her. Her eyes — wide, gray-blue, luminous — gave her such an open, searching look that she always seemed on the verge of discovering something. Her face was almost perfectly symmetrical, but it wasn't prettiness that drew people in; it was the clarity — the kind that made others share their secrets before they realized they were speaking.
«So what did it lead to?» she asked.
«Huh? Oh — right. Suicide.»
«Wait, seriously? Why that?»
«That's not the point» he shook his curls, as if brushing off something he didn't need. «I'm not studying the cause, I'm studying the circumstances. The rhythm. The aesthetics. I decided to focus on pure formality, you know? Stripping meaning down to its frame. Tornatore.»
«Ahh… so that's what you're after» the girl smiled, finally catching the heart of it.
Her style was a mix of comfort and quiet eccentricity: an oversized oatmeal-colored sweater, high-waisted corduroy pants in faded rust, and white sneakers scribbled over with doodles. A vintage 35-millimeter camera hung from her neck, its strap wrapped with bits of multicolored thread. And on her wrist dangled a thin bracelet made from a strip of old film negative.
«Then what's the problem? Sounds like you actually nailed it.»
«No. I nailed something else — something bigger, something outside the frame. I just don't know what it is.» He looked straight into her eyes, and she went still, turning entirely into listening. «If I include the kaleidoscope thing in the project, I'll have to deal with the why — fate, determinism, choice. Because mirrors always raise the question of angle. And here's the weird part: in every position of that kaleidoscope, it could've ended differently. Exactly the same pieces, same rhythm — another outcome. You see what I mean?»
«Yeah. I think so…»
«I don't. I don't understand why it ended this way and not another.»
«But that wasn't what you cared about before. Your project's not about this.»
«Yeah, but now I see this. And now I don't know what my project's about anymore — form, or me.»
The girl gave him a compassionate look and tried to calm him:
«Then why not just hand it in as it is, and get to the bottom of it next year?»
«My advisor said the same thing. But you don't get it — this discovery freaked me out. The artist's self is always there in the work, right? Consciously or not. I thought I was an active part of the process — but turns out, I'm not. I thought I'm the one who creates. But I'm the one who destroys. Why, though? The answer's right there» he brought his hand to his chest — to the left pocket of his shirt, where the flash drive lay, «in my footage. I just can't see it. The shots keep circling around something — one thing, something universal. Some kind of archetype. But which one? The fact that I can't find the key — it's giving me panic attacks. I have to figure this out. And soon. Otherwise… I don't know, I'll miss the moment. That's the only way I can explain it. Sorry.»
He started walking again. She lingered for a second, studying the curve of his hunched back. Then she caught up to him in a few long strides.
«I even thought about seeing a therapist, but all I've got are, like, ten sequences of the same shots over and over — and no way to comment on them. And honestly, I'm not even sure I want to.»
«Oh!» the girl brightened, sensing a chance to nudge the topic slightly aside. «You won't have to explain anything to my grandma. She'll just take one look — into your lost little eyes — kidding! I mean at your crazy film, of course. She's a pro. Spent most of her life teaching philosophy at art schools. I'm sure she'll crack your sequences wide open. At the very least, you'll have an interesting talk.
I've actually been wanting you two to meet for ages. And don't look so scared. If you like me, you'll like her too. Everyone says we're the same. Not just because I'm basically her younger copy — our temper's pretty much identical.»
After several blocks and a couple of left turns, they finally reached the street they needed. It looked almost the same as the ones around it — except there were more plum trees here. Their light, shell-pink blossoms drifted like soft clouds above the fresh green lawns, still untouched by the blades of electric mowers. Guarding this fragile, fleeting beauty stood the mighty trunks of sycamores — as if wearing camouflage — and ancient elms — like clay tablets scratched by sharp reeds. And though those titans rising above the rooftops seemed timeless, life flowed beneath their bark too. Its murmuring breath had already reached the thinnest, youngest branches, filling them, tinting them yellow, cracking open the buds and releasing tender, translucent leaves. Through them, sunlight sifted like golden sand, and it felt as if everything around them slowed, hushed, waiting for something.
Just like now — on this unusually warm, especially sunny day.
«Exquisite,» the girl whispered and stopped. She reached for her camera — then hesitated, thinking it wasn't the moment. Instead, she took the young director's hand and led him into this little kingdom of dreams.
«I never stop being amazed at how fast everything changes here. It feels like just yesterday crocuses and daffodils were poking out of the black soil — pools of violet and little yellow heads searching for their reflections — and magnolia buds, like white doves, were perched on bare branches. And today — it's all different.»
She walked on, catching every detail with her eyes as if she were trying to memorize everything — just in case this would never happen again.
«Yeah, everything changes,» she repeated softly, almost sadly. «Even grandma decided to retire. She'd been teaching at our school for the last five years. I dreamed of getting into one of her lectures — but she left the very year we enrolled. Said the time had come. Why then and not later — she didn't explain.»
The girl made a face and shrugged. Then she smiled — not at the guy, more at her grandma — glanced to the side, and said:
«We're here.»
The young man looked past the fence — and something shifted inside him. Very lightly, almost imperceptibly — no one else would have noticed — but the movement made him linger on the house before him.
There was nothing remarkable about it: a typical wooden-frame house clad in horizontal boards. Blue, with a gray roof, like many around it, two stories tall with an attic, a bay window, and a wide wraparound porch extending to two sides. White window frames, door, and columns gave it a tidy look. A narrow path lined with border grass led to the steps, paved — like the porch floor — with stone of a warm terracotta shade. On either side, plump hydrangea bushes dozed, and the rhododendrons planted along the tall foundation also waited for their moment.
The house looked like hundreds of others. Perhaps that was why it stirred that feeling in him — the sense that he was standing outside his own gate. The one left behind in childhood: warm, bright, always waiting for him to return from his daily wanderings. A home now so far away it felt unreachable.
Why unreachable? There it was, right before him. All he had to do was take a few steps. And yet somehow he knew: it wouldn't bring him back.
The girl was already climbing the steps, and he hurried after her.
In the corner of the porch — not where the draft tugged, but in a quiet, sheltered spot — stood a rocking chair. Cushions of different sizes and hues — emerald, ochre, turquoise — lay on its seat and back, as if on an Eastern divan. A deep blue throw hung over the edge, embroidered with a gold meander at the border. On top of it lay a stack of clipped-together A4 pages.
«Measuring the Subjective Passage of Time,» the girl read aloud. «Incredible woman. I hope I have a mind that clear at sixty-five.» She brushed off the bud scales that had fallen from the trees, frowning at the stains they left on the paper. «She must've gone up to rest — we're late. Let's slip in quietly, and I'll go get her.»
She opened the door with her keys. She meant to place the key ring in its usual spot, but apparently something was already there, because she whispered in irritation:
«Again she put them here — the old keys. The lock was changed ages ago, but she keeps leaving them in this bowl. One day she'll walk out with them by mistake — and then how is she supposed to get back inside?»
Still, she left her own keys beside them — on top, without removing the old ones.
The place for keys was a tall tripod stand beside a small drawer with a mirror. On the drawer lay a pair of leather gloves, an elegant hat, a comb carved with a botanical motif, a shallow dish of coins, and a few more odds and ends. But the tripod was meant for the keys. Minimalist, almost geometric, made of dark lacquered wood, it looked refined even without ornament — if you didn't count the three-pronged supports at the ends of its legs and the inlaid sun at the bottom of its bowl.
Crossing the threshold, a guest stepped directly into a spacious hall. At first glance, everything here was ordinary as well. Only the details were different — and the tripod at the entrance was only one of them. A wide staircase with heavy railings rose to the upper floor, and along the walls, in rhythm with the steps, ran family photographs. Before the stairs, a large fig tree in a deep pot spread its broad, hand-shaped leaves wide, as if welcoming them. Sunlight poured down onto it, warming the air.
To the right was the kitchen — the scent of bay leaves and other dried herbs drifted from inside. Beyond it stretched a hallway with doors to the pantry, the basement, and the guest rooms. It ended, undoubtedly, in the exit to the backyard, where birds were singing. To the left lay the living room — with sofas, armchairs, and a low coffee table. Jasmine tea and cookies with orange marmalade scented the air. Closer to the staircase was yet another door — a closed one, with a polished brass lock. The study.
The young man paused at the threshold. He looked closely, listened, tasted the air. Houses are distinguished by their details — but it was precisely those details that felt familiar here.
«Wait for me in the living room, I'll go up to grandma,» the girl kept whispering to him, pointing the way. «So stubborn — refuses to move downstairs. And we're the ones who have to worry,» she nodded toward the staircase. «Says she has to keep herself in shape. Who exactly does she plan on impressing?» She broke into a wide smile, showing the question was nothing but a joke. «But as long as I'm here, I won't let her go around playing the hero.»
She went upstairs, and he stepped into the living room. Large windows, a fireplace, a massive sideboard. On the walls — a wide strip of wooden paneling and wallpaper patterned with white bouquets on a dusty-green background. The upholstered furniture wore burgundy slipcovers with silver stripes. A few abstract paintings. And indeed everything was ready for tea: a snow-white porcelain set laid out for three, and under a mesh dome — a plate of cookies. Behind the fireplace was a door to the next room. He remembered the study. That door wasn't closed, and the young man instinctively glanced inside.
The study was dimmer than the living room, yet bright enough to look around. Beneath the window, predictably, stood an oak writing desk. Bookshelves here seemed to replace the walls entirely — they reached the ceiling, flowing around doorframes and receding into alcoves. There was no guest chair, but in one alcove two armchairs and a floor lamp invited a friendly conversation.
His gaze caught on a strange object on the far shelf, near the desk. He stepped closer. A flute — two long, thin pipes, scratched and chipped; traces of a red-brown pattern still clung to it. He was already reaching for it when he suddenly flinched and snatched his hand back: outside the window, music flared loud and cut off. He froze. But after a second he realized — it was the song that had been playing the night they met. At the campus party. And he wondered then: what music would have played if they'd met in the age of that flute? Somewhere in the distance — or deep inside — melodic trills answered against a backdrop of nasal wailing.
The guy shifted his gaze to the next object. Beside the flute, on a stand, lay a palm-sized piece of limestone, gnawed by time. It had been broken and reassembled, but amid the chaos of cracks the carved symbol remained clear — a set of three circles inscribed within one another. The young man stared at the concentric rings for a long moment. And suddenly he had the sensation that torchlight flickered off the stone — and a word rose to his tongue: «reversion».
He tore himself away from the stone, and his eyes fell on a letter framed like a photograph. On the yellowed, water-stained paper, the tracks of old folds still showed. Even lines ran across it like ribbons dropped into a river current — sometimes smooth, sometimes catching on rapids — and within that flow the shapes of words emerged. He leaned closer, recognizing the contours: «Man fears what he has never known — and knowledge brings an end to every dread» he read slowly, and a shiver ran through him.
«What the hell… this is Arabic. I don't know Arabic.»
His breath faltered. A vague unease stirred inside him, like a worm shifting in damp soil.
A newspaper clipping — an article with gratitude from an Italian museum for the gift of a unique painting by some artist. Supposedly, that final secular portrait lifted the veil on the mystery of his private life. An enigmatic painting by an enigmatic painter. In the photograph — a woman, unmistakably "grandma," standing beside the portrait nearly half her height. The face on the canvas resembled no one he knew, yet it looked at him as if it knew him far too well. And suddenly his eyes began to sting — as if he truly had caused her pain.
Realizing this, he turned away from the shelves in fright and braced his hands on the desk. On it lay a mother-of-pearl fan. Light from the window slid along its blades. Their cool gleam seemed to mirror someone's will — and remorse entered his heart, directed at himself.
Next to the fan lay a measuring device assembled from several rulers of different scales. They were arranged in some kind of configuration. He understood none of it, but somehow knew understanding wasn't needed.
«Measure,» he whispered.
On the other side of the wall, stairs creaked and voices sounded.
«Darling, be so kind and go to the conservatory, close all the windows — the wind is picking up,» said one voice.
«Alright, grandma,» answered another.
The young man seemed not to hear them. Breathing heavily, he hovered over the desk, staring ahead with unfocused eyes.
A lock clicked. The door opened without a sound. Someone stepped inside — and stood silently watching him. Waiting for him to be ready for the meeting.
At last, the young man gathered his courage and lifted his eyes.
Before him stood a short, straight-backed woman with silver hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. Her face had kept its fine, balanced features, and though her skin had darkened from sun and years, her gaze remained clear and young. In it lived the same bright concentration as in her granddaughter — only without impatience; in its place was a calm resolve. There was no elderly hesitation in her posture, yet her hand still held the door handle with the carefulness that comes from experience. She wore a soft pantsuit, a linen shirt, and light leather shoes. On her hand — a thin ring with amber catching the light. Shades of dusty ochre, ivory, and yellowed paper created an impression of quiet harmony and reliability, smoothing the unspoken awkwardness of standing before a professor. From her emanated a steady strength, and at the same time — a warmth that invited trust.
The young man instantly understood where the granddaughter had inherited that smile, that quick bright spark in her eyes. In this woman he felt the same inner energy, only slowed, transformed into gentleness. She looked at him the way a mother looks at a son who has grown up far from her sight: so this is what you've become. Without hurt, without reproach for having left her, but with interest and a touch of pride — her son had grown, had lived. In that moment she was beautiful, as all mothers are.
But…
He looked at her as if she had betrayed him. She was old. How could she have done this to him — grown old? How? Yes, he had made mistakes, but how could she be so cruel? What was the point of his long journey then? What was the meaning of all that knowledge, all that experience, if she… was now so old?
He nearly burst into tears. She smiled softly: come, now.
He wanted to rage, grabbed the cursed measuring device, intending to break it. She sighed quietly: it won't help.
So the young man straightened, took a deep breath, and looked at her with unwavering certainty.
«I'll go with you.»
«I didn't call you.»
«Then call me. And I'll go.»
«It won't be a journey — only a short walk. It will break you.»
«But it will lead to home.»
«It will lead you to ruins.»
«Then the ruins will be my home.»
«Why? You will build your home yourself, just as you intended.»
«But I can't do it without you.»
«You can. Just as I built mine — without you.
And you will do it without looking back.
Because you are free.
Now — you are free.»