A figure is seen in a green garden. Her back turned to the viewer as she wanders down a narrow path. She grabs a light pink cloth, turns her body and covers her head with the fabric. As she turns her identity becomes concealed. In her new body lies clouds and a hill, a valley with dry fynbos rustling in the wind carrying billowing clouds over her torso. She starts to slowly pull down the fabric over her face, covering her body as she makes her descend.

All the while, a voice recites a poem. This is a story about loss and letting go. It is a familiar story, a cyclical story with a bit of hope. It is an ode both to a personal story of loss and that of loss on a global scale one that is still unimaginable to properly fathom. But maybe one day it will be possible to leave our grief behind at the door.