Learning to Be Here

Sometimes home isn’t where you were born, and it isn’t even where you once dreamed of going. You find it where you still have the strength to live in the present.

A father and his grown daughter end up close through emigration. He settles into a rented house, and this is his way of being here: he renovates, works in the garden, helps the neighbors. He’s proud of her childhood wins, and she remembers only the trains between tournaments.

She lives in motion and puts a home together in pieces. Moves, routines, things you can pack up and unpack again. Sometimes they meet in a single frame—by the window, in the hallway, in a short conversation. In those moments you can see how home happens. Through presence. Through pauses and small gestures. Through the fact that you don’t have to fully understand each other and still stay close.