In a big house whose furniture hides secrets, every morning, the solitary grandmother humors the small fixations of old age and rummages among the drawers and kitchen cupboards. Her days pass in solitude and each gesture can take all the time it needs; the old woman doesn't overlook a crumb on the table or the leaves that have fallen onto the white altar in the family tomb in the cemetery. Her life passes tranquilly, with sporadic visits by her daughter and the occasional small resentment, until one morning her life is completely changed.
—Anonymous