Aterratge

The decision he makes in that cafe is radically contrary to his way of doing things: without thinking, he says yes to a trip with three strangers. They are going to photograph themselves inside the shell of a plane that went down in 1973. It was in Iceland, on a coast of continuous cliffs, and was piloted by a twenty-six-year-old inexperienced pilot. No one died. This story fascinates him and tames the old instinct to rummage. Write to Gregory Fletcher, the young pilot of half a century ago. And he answers. The exchange between these two people separated by everything - geography, historical time, condition, and a pandemic again - produces a game of mirrors. Questions arise that are not asked in ordinary life. About the possibility of misfortune, always. About the knowledge that some have of the bottom of the well. About the apparent impossibility of getting out of it, and about the imperious flow of life, from random to random.