Afterburn was born from a question that sits at the fault-line of science and grief: what if we could capture the final visions of the dying, and even reproduce them? Would that offer comfort, or strip those visions of their mystery?

For me, this story is about two women carrying unbearable weight. Freya hides her grief behind clinical precision. Agnes hides hers behind defiance. When they meet, the experiment is only the surface. What’s really happening is a collision of wounds, one woman’s need to prove and another’s need to forgive.

Visually, the film moves between the grounded texture of hospice corridors and the dream-logic of memory. Doors, smoke, and light are our motifs — thresholds between states of being. The tone is restrained, never sensational. I wanted the audience to feel as though they are witnessing something intimate, unsettling, and ultimately human: the fragile ways we try to make peace with death, and with each other.