A mother and child live on the edge of the forest. They’re not well-liked in the village. The women gossip about them. And the men come to visit, especially at night.

The child observes everything, but above all, her mother, with a fascination that fluctuates between hatred and passion, in which we sense the danger, threat and violence of repressed emotions.

She’s a strange, unwashed child. She grew up tough, like a weed. She senses, perceives, touches, captures, hunts, always on the look-out, always lurking. Sometimes, her own darkness overwhelms her. On those gray days, she has accidents.

Then one day, her mother disappears.

What will become of her?

Mama has disappeared. It isn’t easy. It had to be repeated several times, the sentence broken down, taken and shaken. Mama has disappeared. What madness in a sentence. If I whisper it, tears come and burn me; if I pronounce it with a steely voice, like a tired old robot – ma-ma has dis-ap-peared, ma-ma has dis-ap-peared, it gives me goosebumps and I feel like an imminent planetary catastrophe.

With its own rituals, a voice speaks to us from childhood. In a heady litany, adults’ words open gaps and leave scars. The voice of a dark and wounded, dangerous and fragile wild child, who suddenly finds herself entirely on her own.