It is a weekday afternoon, one of those afternoons when life stands still a little, time stretches out like a dreamy veil over the park, where the trees stretch their branches lazily towards a vain sky. And there, almost unnoticed, a red square floats, just above the grass, as if it has always been there, like a geometric mystery, motionless, yet full of a quiet energy, a riddle waiting to be unraveled, spinning invisible threads towards the chance passers-by whose walks are interrupted by this absurd spectacle. And yet, what is perhaps most remarkable is not the people who pass by, scratch their ears in amazement for a moment and then walk on, as if it were nothing more than a temporary optical illusion, a flicker of sunlight in their eyes. No, it is the group of elderly people, with walkers, hunched backs and grey hair, who slowly but resolutely make their way towards this red, floating object. They approach it with a seriousness that suggests they understand something the rest of us don't, as if they were following an inner calling, a whisper meant just for them, an invitation to some kind of transcendental redemption.