Sorrow and candid longing rest deep in the eyes of our protagonist, now in her late eighties, gazing into the photograph of a young man, her son. She lives alone yet leaves her front door ajar, a sort of ritual. She sweeps the rug on her living room floor as if she is readying herself for a visit. She patiently brings coffee to a boil and now sits in her chair; next to her, a tray, two cups and a pot of unserved coffee. As she dedicatedly gapes at the slightly-opened door in anxious anticipation, music, that has been lingering with a nostalgic note is progressively intensified. The scarring sound of bombshells and machine-gun fire marry her undeterred gaze. Angle closes in on both the door and her face interchangeably while bringing the music to an abrupt quiet. There’s no one coming and her war goes on.