In a dark corner of a mansion in mid-century Pennsylvania, Erzsébet, a Hungarian immigrant rebuilding her life in America, pores over the contents of a desk. Scattered across it are sketches and technical drawings for a civic building, a grand folly designed by her husband László, for the wealthy patron whose home they now share. “What are you doing?” László says, walking in. “I’m looking at you,” his wife replies.

Years later that building is incomplete, though stands tall in its creator’s mind. A second chance to finish the job presents itself. “Promise me you won’t let it drive you mad?” Erzsébet pleads. Even as László promises he won’t, his voice betrays him. The madness — the obsession — is already there, deep within his marrow.