In a small town in northern Hungary, somewhere between the hills of Zemplén, live Tamás and László. Tamás works as an archivist at the city museum. Old maps, dusty books, stories no one tells anymore. László runs a small engineering office — steady, successful, quiet. Their paths cross only rarely. Yet both carry a similar unease for which they have no words. It is not just politics, not just the loud voices on the radio. It is the constant vigilance. How easily can a sentence strike the wrong tone today? How much of what one thinks may be spoken aloud? On a Saturday afternoon, they meet by chance at an art exhibition. On a screen, a Wandelbild unfolds: oil paints layering upon one another, flowing transitions, colors sliding without clear beginning or end. They stand side by side, silent. Then Tamás says, more into the room than directly to László: „It does not know where it begins — and yet, it radiates calm.“ László nods, after a short pause. „Perhaps that is exactly what we are missing.“ They continue to speak. About colors, lines, transitions, about standing still before a constantly changing image. They do not speak of politics. They do not speak of origins. And for a moment, something wordless happens. Not agreement. Not consensus. Only the quiet feeling of being able to remain together — without judgment. When they leave, their paths remain apart. But they carry with them a quiet joy: One can still meet — even now.

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