J'étais dans ma maison et j'attendais que la pluie vienne

Five women stand on the doorstep, watching the eternal landscape as it moves ever further away from them; far from everything, far from men, they wait for the one their father drove away years before: the son, the Young Brother.
They hope for his return.One day, at last, he reappears.
But no sooner does he set foot "on the threshold than he falls and vanishes" and tells them nothing. Why this silence, why did he care about them? And why continue to wait for the one who never gave any news and who may have only returned in their imagination? Yet they were ready to run away, if only they knew the answers.
Five women locked up for years, behind closed doors, creating a ritual of waiting, a never-ending loop, hoping, raging, tearing and supporting each other.
Attentive, intimate and painful words are woven around the young brother, accompanied by a slow, tiptoeing strut. Once again, they struggle to share the spoils of love, wresting exclusive tenderness from each other.

A word that opens like a long dialogue poem, one voice per generation, a polyphony of anger and complaint.