Vienna, winter of 1995.
Snow erases the contours of the world with the patience of someone in no hurry, and the trees emerge from the white like graphite on wet paper, dark, silent witnesses to a thousand passings.
Florian walks through those places the way one walks through things that have been loved: without really looking at them, but knowing they are still there.
His thoughts turn to Hannah. She has been gone for years, yet Vienna keeps holding something of their story: in the avenues submerged in fog, in the steam that clouds the café windows, in the milky light that in January turns everything into a memory.
Every street seems to hold an invisible trace of their passing, as if time had not managed to carry everything away.
Some people remain hidden inside places, inside gestures, inside the soft sound of footsteps on snow.
What changes is only the way they go on living inside us, until they become like the light of winter afternoons: distant, silent, impossible to hold. And as Florian slowly walks away, Vienna seems to be waiting for someone still.
