Closing shot: the rewind whirl returns, but this time it resolves into a sequence of faces — comedians, lovers, villains, mothers — each frame lingered on long enough for the viewer to register that repackaging is an act of storytelling itself. The logo fades; the tabla rolls into silence. The repack is finished, but the films keep playing — in living rooms, in memory, in the quiet half-hour between trains when a song begins to play and everything, for a moment, is exactly as it was.