What was the starting point for this work?

This stems from themes that have long permeated my work: parallel universes, quantum physics, and the question of grief. I had already explored these subjects in my play, “Planck Time (2000).” It follows a dying father and his daughter, Maria, who tries to save him by imagining an alternate universe. The series extends this idea: grief remains central, but death is no longer the end—it's the beginning.

The theme of destiny and loss recurs frequently in your work. What did you want to express?

It's an existential question that has preoccupied me since the beginning. I come from a Catholic family, but I never found my place in religion. Theater has taken on this spiritual function: it connects, it transmits, it consoles. When a spectator tells me, 'Your play changed my life,' it's a blessing for me. Art then becomes a kind of secular religion.

The series alternates between realism and dreamlike imagery, almost like two worlds. Was this intentional?

Yes, very much so. I wanted each visual universe to have its own light, its own breath. Gaudí influenced this approach: his curved, colorful, almost living architecture. My cinematic references range from Hitchcock to David Lynch—structure and the unconscious. Dreams are the realm where everything becomes possible.

The actors' performances convey a great sense of restraint. How did you direct this contained emotion?

They all come from a theater background; this allowed for a restrained approach. Few gestures, many silences. The heart of the series is the chemistry between Eduard and Elisa. Without it, nothing existed. We didn't have the resources for a big production—and that was fortunate. Fewer effects, more truth. It's not a science fiction series: it's a series of emotions.

In an age of speed, you choose slowness. A form of resistance?

The theatre taught me that time doesn't stop. On stage, we experience time; we don't stage it. Some find the series slow; I see in it the natural rhythm of grief. Pain doesn't run, it breathes.

Is writing a solitary act for you?

Yes, and thankfully so. We write alone, but never for ourselves. It's a solitude offered up, turned towards others. I write so that my words become tangible: carried by voices, bodies, a stage. During the pandemic, I wrote my first novel—which won a prize!—and today I'm on my third. The novel is pure solitude; the theater, a solitude in motion.

How does your experience in theatre bring to your other disciplines?

The theatre breathes; it evolves every night. On screen, everything freezes. The tension is the same, but the nature changes. Theatre demands a vocal and physical strength that the camera does not require. It is an art of endurance and a living soul.

Your dialogues leave a lot of space for silence. How do you work on this balance?

Silence is written! Beckett showed us that. What is left unsaid makes the spectator work. I like ellipses, the spaces between two acts. And then, words often lie: when a character is sad, let them say, “I am going for a walk.” It is the gesture that conveys the emotion.

What are your current projects?

I've just started a novel about old age and the manipulation of vulnerabilities. And I'm preparing two plays. One is called The White Hole — a musical piece inspired by an astrophysical concept by Carlo Rovelli. The black hole symbolized the death of the father; the white hole, that of the mother — the light regained.

What are your sources of inspiration?

The same as always: life, love, death. These are the essential mysteries. Love and death share this force: a tension between solitude and the need for the other.

How did you become a playwright? Any anecdotes?

At 22, I submitted my first play to a competition under a pseudonym. I dreamt of winning, on a plane, newspaper in hand. A few days later, victory! On the flight home, the flight attendant handed me the newspaper… and my name was on the front page. Exactly like in the dream. That's how it all began.