In a family, one day, the husband's habitual violence against his wife turns into a feminicide. The man kills her by smashing her head with an iron. The woman lies on the ground, dead, but her death is not enough: no one believes her. So it is that the woman, like the angel of the hearth in whose grotesque image she finds herself stuck, will be forced to get up and get back into the same routine, cleaning the house, taking care of housework, preparing food for her son and husband, looking after her elderly mother-in-law. Every morning, family members find her dead and do not believe her. Every morning she gets up, opens the moka pot, closed too tightly, and begins again to suffer the violence of her husband, the depression of her son, the impotence of her mother-in-law who, instead of condemning her brutal and despotic son, pities him. Every night the wife dies again, as in a circle of hell in which the punishment is never extinguished. In the half-light of a sleeping house, the angel shakes the flaps of her dressing gown and tries to fly, but she is only granted the intention of flight.