Muriel lies. She lies to her friends, to her husband, to her son. She has a lover. A very discreet lover, whom she seldom confides in. Is she afraid she may lie to him too? This is a story: nothing but lies. No major crimes, no real betrayals. Like a garden under the moonlight, all to herself. As if this secret bore the most precious gift. These transitions, this melting of two days, two worlds, where she can invent her own world. As if she were more in love with her love than with her lover... Muriel lies. But she begins to realize that these lies bring confusion and that she wants more than just that. She wants traces, pictures. She wants proof to put reality and lies back into place. And when she gets this proof she shows it to her husband, whom she still loves despite his unfaithfulness. Not as a confession but as a burning hot gift.