Ali

Puiu's anti-elegy follows one man's nocturnal passage through indifferent hospitals, refusing sentiment while revealing the quiet humanity of those who pause to truly see him. Like 'Ali,' it understands that dying is largely about being witnessed, and that small acts of attention become the last music a person hears.

Gobert's Alpine ghost story renders the dead as gentle rather than vengeful, drifting back into family kitchens with the bewildered tenderness of those mid-departure. The show's foggy hush and lullaby score share Lhasa's conviction that the boundary between living and gone is permeable and full of music.

Beauvoir's brief account of her mother's terminal illness watches a body become unfamiliar territory while love sharpens into something almost archaeological. Its plain-spoken intimacy with the dying parent's shrinking world resonates with Lhasa's whispered address, where naming the beloved becomes the last labor of tenderness.

The Unthanks build a slow Northumbrian devotional around the image of birds rising, layering sisters' voices into long-breathed chants of leave-taking. Its patient, almost liturgical pacing matches Lhasa's understanding that farewell deserves time, repetition, and the unhurried weight of harmony.

Ōima's series follows an immortal being who learns existence by inhabiting the dying, absorbing each beloved life as it ends and carrying its shape forward. Its premise — that to love something is to outlive it and bear its memory — gives anime form to Lhasa's intuition that the names of the departed become a body we keep singing.