An art dealer who buried his painting career to broker other people's masterpieces is hired to authenticate a 400-year-old Japanese sake cup — one that can tell its own story. When the cup speaks, he has to reckon with what it means to silence something with a soul.

Two old friends share their monthly breakfast at the last real diner in Los Angeles, until one of them announces he's found love and is leaving town. The other realizes, in the space between bites, exactly what he's about to lose.

A man wakes up to find his lover inexplicably gone — no note, no warning, no explanation — and retraces their last ordinary day together searching for the seam where everything came apart. Grief, here, is not a feeling but a physical fact: cigarettes smoked in his lover's brand, a mall that may not exist anymore, and fists bleeding against glass doors that won't open.

A man given twelve hours to live spends them doing exactly what he always has — deferring, observing, staying just outside the arena of his own life. A darkly comic meditation on what it means to finally run out of time to change.