In the cold light of dawn, a man counts out old, tarnished liras onto a rickety table. The room is small with peeling wallpaper, lit by a single bulb swinging gently from a wire – it plasters long, sinewy shadows against the cracked plaster. With a shaky grip, the man pushes forward each coin; the tinkling noise they make is the only interruption to an otherwise deathly silence. Outside the frosted window, the frost thaws against the pane as the sun starts to rise, peppering the room with a diffused, warm light. The camera cuts to a close-up of the man’s weathered face, hard lines etched deeply into his skin, eyes focused intently on each coin, as if every second were split into millions of tiny fractions. The camera follows his gaze to the money on the table, then pulls back, capturing the age-worn man in his tiny squalid room. The room stands still, as if holding its breath, with only the distant hum of the city going about its day.