Over the course of three nights, in dialogue with their loved ones, they struggle to choose between a world close to self-destruction and a healing future.

Sam and Mélisandre are sisters, but there is a lot that sets them apart. The first made and remade her life before returning to the estate. The other stayed behind, solitary and withdrawn. They are each supported by a man, shadows rather than lovers. They are trying, or have tried, to survive in a world in which they can no longer find their bearings. Their nights have long since given birth to neither youth nor dreams.

They do not appear to have a family in the usual sense of the word, yet they have inherited a huge estate, with a large, now dilapidated house and fields, forests, a pond and a river. But the nature that surrounds them and that was home to their childhood has been disfigured by housing projects. That was before the financial crisis, which has brought these unfinished projects to a halt. The world around them, which used to strive for performance and efficiency, now resembles the two sisters: at a standstill, uncertain, close to ruin.

But this depleted environment is awakened by a community that has come to settle between the forest and the dried-up marsh. They fiddle and tinker with the territory they have taken over, weave other links with nature, live differently. Lou, Sam's new companion, and Maxime, the teenager who arrives from the forest, soon bring the two sisters face to face with what they have become.

Guillaume Béguin's theatre is dreamy, weaving worlds that are both real and ghostly. As is often the case, the director – now first-time author – explores what unites and divides our heritage and our descendants. This time, through the characters of the two sisters and the metaphor of night as metamorphosis, he examines a society that is being suffocated by the excessive exploitation of its environment and the people who inhabit it, and which carries within it the dream of its own revolution.