40 Maria Luisa Boulevard is the address where three generations of my family once lived. I grew up in this apartment, a place shaped by political upheaval and eccentric relatives. Today it is abandoned and falling apart. My family has left, one by one. What remains are traces of their presence, lingering like ghosts. I am often haunted by the memory of my grandfather sitting in the kitchen in a black-and-white suit, barefoot, licking his favourite vanilla ice cream cone, calmly telling me that death does not exist. Returning to this apartment with a film crew, I use rehearsals, quiet observations and loosely staged scenes to invite my family in the filmmaking process itself. Together, we revisit moments from our shared or personal history, surreal episodes and family anecdotes or just the everyday life in this area of the city. Despite years of change, 40 Maria Luisa Boulevard remains a place where time seems to stand still, preserving a way of life that is gradually disappearing. 40 Maria Luisa Boulevard is the address where three generations of my family once lived. I grew up in this apartment, a place shaped by political upheaval and eccentric relatives. Today it is abandoned and falling apart. My family has left, one by one. What remains are traces of their presence, lingering like ghosts. I am often haunted by the memory of my grandfather sitting in the kitchen in a black-and-white suit, barefoot, licking his favourite vanilla ice cream cone, calmly telling me that death does not exist. Returning to this apartment with a film crew, I use rehearsals, quiet observations and loosely staged scenes to invite my family in the filmmaking process itself. Together, we revisit moments from our shared or personal history, surreal episodes and family anecdotes or just the everyday life in this area of the city. Despite years of change, 40 Maria Luisa Boulevard remains a place where time seems to stand still, preserving a way of life that is gradually disappearing.