Black bags full of memories, stolen moments and private little epiphanies clutter the room, haunting her even more.

A picture on the mantelpiece comes to life. A view from a window casts light on the child they never had. An old coat clings to her, a part of him.

Sand pours down from the ceiling like some invisible hourglass marking time. All the while Cerberus invades the woman’s space, tormenting her in a demonic tug of love that might just tempt her over the edge.

On paper, Vox Motus’s gently impressionistic meditation on the grieving process sounds like many things, from the slushy sentimentalism of Ghost to the solitary madness of Grid Iron’s Those Eyes, That Mouth, out the other side to Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours: Blue.

In the flesh, however, Candice Edmunds and Jamie Harrison’s meticulously realised miniature sets its own unique store with a box of tricks played out in worlds way beyond its initially domestic set-up, as scenery flies up out of the floorboards or else does mid-air somersaults.

Much of the action is wordless, with Meline Danielewicz’s Claire largely left alone on stage to square up to Martin McCormack’s feral, utterly nasty Cerberus, with Jenny Hulse’s Fay having to force her way into Claire’s emotions.

This is a beautifully realised construction about loss and healing, but primarily about how, once you’ve spun dangerously out of control, in order to get through the pain, edging slowly, ever so slowly back to life is the only way to survive.