Say its name and an invisible warmth wraps around us. We see the ball of fire high in the sky. It is generous and cruel at the same time. It lights our lives, yet sometimes it burns our skin. We picture it yellow and bright, a faithful friend to happy days. But it can become unbearable. Even tyrannical. I once loved it. Now I look for shade and the comfort of air that does not hurt.

Rain has always carried a special scent for me. It falls, it strikes the rooftops, it slides down windows, it splashes on the ground. Every drop becomes a note, an improvised music filling the air—sometimes deafening, sometimes so faint you only notice it later, shining on the sidewalks.

Suddenly, a dull thud, like a ripe fruit bursting on stone.
In the street, a man stood frozen, mouth agape, arms half-open, water dripping from his clothes like a soaked rag left out in the rain. His felt hat lay at his feet, limp, flattened against the pavement.

I had such a great time. It feels strange to see my little sister Julie with a big belly. The baby shower was beautiful. I think Mom, the cousins, and I did a wonderful job. But now it’s time to leave. We cleaned everything up nicely. Our little Julie can finally lie down and rest. The baby is due in a month.

Marie entered the town hall, her footsteps echoing on the cold marble floor. She took a ticket from the machine—number 42—and sat down. Around her, the white walls were adorned with severe portraits of former mayors. The service counters, aligned like sentinels, displayed ticket numbers in a chaotic, unpredictable order.

Vincent Lemaire, a 61-year-old private driver, enjoys the solitude his job provides. For him, this means avoiding close relationships, even though he meets a lot of people. He prefers to keep a certain emotional distance: he has heard so many stories over the years that he’s become impervious. He lives on the 5th floor of an old apartment building, where he appreciates a view of a nearby park and a near-perfect sense of tranquility.

Jane and Pierre stand in the intimacy of an old, isolated church, bathed in the pale morning light. In front of them, the priest watches them with an inscrutable gaze. He speaks of the importance of signs, of the need to pay attention to details. But his words sound strange, almost like a warning.

Emma walked briskly down the cobblestone street, holding her coat tight around her as rain pelted the city. She hadn’t brought an umbrella that morning, and now she regretted her oversight. As she rushed toward a café, a hand gently clasped her wrist.

Julien and Emma first crossed paths during a trip to Greece, organized for scuba diving enthusiasts. From the moment he caught sight of Emma, Julien felt a gentle wave of nervousness wash over him, like a tide unexpectedly pulling him under. She was lively, her eyes bright, and her passion for diving seemed to illuminate her smile.

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON

Rose, a seventy-year-old woman, is an insatiable enthusiast of life. Since her retirement, she has constantly explored new activities: painting, pottery, captivating readings, and nature walks. She also volunteers for an association supporting autistic children, reading them stories and soothing them with her gentle voice. Yet, despite this full life, Rose feels an emptiness she cannot name.

I used to run from words,