In Nice, François irons slowly a shirt with an iron used in his laundry. His gestures are slow but precise. The sign outside the store shows tracks of a long activity. In white capitals we can read Laundry of France. Inside, the dilapidated machines and the paint testify of a bygone days. Very soon, François will stop his activity, he will be eighty-nine years old. He will have spent forty five years in his store. Face to face with emptiness, his face remains impassive. In the meantime, he continues his activity: he washes the uniforms of a large hotel in Nice and cleans the linen that his customers bring to him. What is he waiting for so patiently? Little by little, he begins to tell me his story.