My film unfolds inside AI’s playground: family memories and everyday scenes rebuilt as a hybrid world of half-documented, half-invented characters. Camera and algorithm become a healing game, looping, glitching and remixing fragments of image and voice. By playing with codes, formats and points of view, the film asks what is displayed, what is erased, and who is allowed to appear on screen. The narrative moves through moments that are both intimate and strangely universal. A childhood memory at the beach becomes a sun-bleached hallucination: the waves repeat like corrupted files, and the figure of a parent drifts in and out of focus, as if the software cannot decide whether to keep them or let them fade. A funeral procession appears as a line of silhouettes - half of them real, half algorithmic - walking in a loop that never reaches its destination. Love scenes shift between tenderness and distortion: a first kiss rewriting itself with every frame, a heartbreak replayed until its emotional frequency turns into a pattern of pixels and static. Ordinary domestic rituals - setting a table, closing shutters at dusk, calling someone who never answers - are rebuilt as moments where memory itself negotiates what stays and what dissolves. In this hybrid space, grief behaves like a duplicated file, childhood like an unstable archive, and family history like a system patch trying to restore what was lost. The film treats these fragments not as fixed images but as living materials; they shift, stutter and reassemble, creating a visual language where the emotional truth survives even when the factual world collapses.