In a prison cell, on the couch, in the corner, lies Gabrielle, 56 years old, with gray hair, wearing a gray prison uniform. Opposite her, there is a small barred window, and she is looking at the full moon shining on her. Nearby is the cell door with bars as well, further away a toilet basin, and in front of the audience a simple wooden chair. The music gradually lowers until there is complete silence. Gabrielle rises from her bed and, approaching the window, clings to the bars with her hands. She lifts her legs trying to see outside, but her whole head does not reach, just at eye level. She turns her body, approaches the audience, looking into the distance thoughtfully, and stops in front of them. She slightly shrugs her shoulders and then monologues. Her voice sounds heavy and tired.

GABRIELLE Night has fallen... Night has fallen once again and I cannot catch the moon... I cannot bathe under its light, I cannot play hide and seek with it... I cannot dance under its glow, talk to it about love... mistakes... faults... But I have forgotten nothing... Today, April 19, 1986, I count. Years... twenty... Months... two hundred forty... Nights... seven thousand, three hundred two... The days, no, I do not count them, they do not touch me... during the day I am invisible... I do not live... I do not exist... But when the sun begins to hide, memories come out of their drawers and chase me like demons, to remind me that I live, that I still exist... How many years they will torment me still, I do not know... Every day that dawns I wish it to be my last, but... but, when darkness falls, I am reborn from my ashes.