I miss Paris Métro. I miss our futile attempts to read the Métro map. I miss Parisians' effortlessly chic outfits and modernistic ads that oddly harmonize with dim, historic stations. I miss taking photos of approaching trains. I miss the feel of déjà vu in old, metallic trains. I miss the amicable chuckles as we mispronounced the stations. I miss the days when my biggest troubles were figuring out where, when and what to explore at Paris. I miss myself.
The son could only talk to his father in the sister's absence? Despite the ostensible 'answer' given at the end that God exists in the form of love, the film is full of ambiguities, as all the characters' reliability remain in question till the end.