(Quick cuts of images — a door opening, a photograph burning, a whisper)

From the mist of a forgotten harbor, from the silence of a broken piano, Abigail descends. Not like rain — like ash. Not like a prayer — like a verdict. She carries a letter never sent, a kiss never given, a name erased from every document but one: her own. Descarga Abigail. Let her fall. Let her break. Let her finally rest — or finally rise.

(Music pulse)

(Deep, slow voice) “They said she would never come back. They said her story was over. They were wrong.”