The Eremites

In the stark silence of the Alps, a solitary farm clings to centuries‑old customs, its remote valleys echoing with the wind‑carved rhythm of daily toil. The landscape is both a refuge and a cage, its snow‑capped peaks framing a life that moves at the pace of seasons rather than clocks. Here, the weight of inheritance hangs heavy, shaping every decision before it is spoken.

Albert, a man in his mid‑thirties, has spent most of his adult life under the watchful eye of his mother. Though his age suggests independence, Marianne still directs the course of his existence, believing that the isolation of the mountain would be too harsh a legacy. She arranges for him to work in a marble quarry down in the valley, a stark contrast to the pastoral world of his birth. The quarry’s clamor and the camaraderie of fellow laborers tempt him, yet he often slips back to the farm under cover of darkness, seeking the quiet comfort of the hay store and the familiar contours of his home.

Amid the steady grind of stone and soil, a new presence begins to shift Albert’s routine. Paola, a Hungarian guest worker who tends the quarry’s canteen, brings a glimpse of warmth and possibility that the mountains have long denied him. As the first snows begin to drift, the delicate balance between duty to family, the pull of the valley, and the promise of something different starts to feel fragile. The film hovers in that uneasy space, inviting the audience to linger in the tension between tradition and longing, between the cold stone of the quarry and the lingering scent of home.