The pacing is slow, glacial at times, without the preoccupied, curious character of the first chapter. Though this can border on tedium, it is the perfect approach for a plot centered around a sick ward, where the course of life or death must unfold in excruciating real time. With its relaxed and quite introduction, alongside the discontented waiting of the woman, the sequence establishes a sense of both anticipation and patience from its very first moments. The first quality belongs to the wife, who must soon make a fateful decision, and the second belongs to the doctor, who tragically lost his family in the war and knows that as we rush about, making hasty decisions, we only rush towards our own death. Better to be calm, lucid and methodical, especially when making a decision you know is not honest, but believe to be right.
There is a bit of satisfaction in connecting with their neglectful father from beyond the grave. Even more, however, they are swept away by the feeling of getting lost in passion, absorbed in an adventure. As they remark to one another, standing in the courtyard of the housing complex (previously forbidding, now vaguely magical), they are able to forget their adult problems by focusing on the collection. Even after disaster strikes and personal betrayal rears its ugly head, the two find that a half-dozen, thumbsize, razor-thin objects, spread out over a bare table, are enough to keep them satisfied. Above all, it’s the companionship that reels them in. In a massive film all about people finding and losing one another, these two have discovered what makes them happy. This is how The Decalogue ends – not with a bang, but a chuckle.