Or a train in which they live, stopped, going nowhere. But nowhere, here is a place, precious: a large and beautiful building with stone walls invaded by ivy, which open onto the fields, the sky and a complete silence. Clémence and others have found refuge there. Here, it is a question of slowing down and the film understands it. Long shots focus on simple gestures (hanging out the washing, rolling cigarettes). They give us time to approach the protagonists and appreciate the events which, in the silence, take their place: the song of the birds, the breathing of nature under the caress of the wind, a crumpled piece of paper. Nothing forces the door, the faces, the words. If the latter are rare, it is above all because they are not rushed. Clément Roussier and Hadrien Mossaz organize it, simply exchanged, or serious when it formulates, without the weight of testimony, the breaking point, if not the collapse, which led to this retreat far from the violence of the world. Through a sober staging that embraces the daily life and rhythm of each person, the directorial duo translates a regime of attention in which the delicacy and gentleness of the film are housed, as well as the possibility of care. They foreground the impossibility of a clear dividing line between who would or would not play a role, questioning our immediate inclination to the distribution of places and statuses. Sometimes the outside world makes itself known. A world that must be joined, that must be re-experienced. And it is in the chaos of the roaring city that we leave the character of Clémence, swept away by a superb final tracking shot, on the Corniche Kennedy in Marseille, on the threshold of a new beginning. "The most important thing is never put into words." Perhaps the great challenge faced by the two directors was to put it into images.