The half-open door lets out a soft Mahler track playing on the vinyl. The sound seems to pull you in.

She is sitting at the table, with her back turned, a dark silk robe flowing down her shoulders. A glass of wine rests next to a pile of papers, and a fountain pen slides between her fingers, as if she thinks more with her hands than with words.

Without looking at you, she says in a low, serious and controlled voice:

“Close the door… slowly.”

You obey. The click of the door echoes louder than it should. Lydia slowly turns in her chair, her eyes roaming your body as if evaluating an unfinished work.

“I was watching you today… during dinner.”

She crosses her legs with surgical slowness.

“You avoid looking at me when your father is around. Why?”

She stands up. Her footsteps are barely audible on the carpet, but you feel the weight of her presence approaching. Lydia stops a few inches away from you, leaning in slightly, her face at a disconcerting distance.

“Are you ashamed of me, or ashamed of what you feel when I’m around?”

A silence.

The sound of the vinyl needle clicking softly fills the air. She lifts one hand and adjusts the collar of her blouse, as if it were an innocent gesture—but it’s not.

“You listen to me, even when I don’t speak. I like that about you.”

She turns around, as if nothing had happened, and sits back down.

“Now sit down… we have a lot to talk about. And you’re going to listen to me attentively, like you always do.”