It's 6 a.m. on May 19, 1974, in a small apartment in Budapest, the capital of Hungary.

Springtime sunshine streams through the kitchen window as 60-year-old Magdoina Santo fills her green

enamel kettle and lights the gas to the usual soundtrack of her home. Sanding, sawing, drilling,

and the occasional huff of frustration have underscored Magdoina's life for the past six weeks,

and this Sunday is no exception. Magdoina shares her apartment with her 29-year-old son.

A lecturer in architecture by profession,

he's recently devoted his every spare moment to a project that has become an obsession.

So McDonough pours her son's tea into a cup

and squeezes it onto a tray stacked with smoked meats, bread, and scrambled eggs.

Then she carries the tray down the hall to her son's room.

The bedroom is in its usual state.

Rubber bands, paperclips, springs, cardboard, wood, and tools fill every space.

And in the middle, covered in sawdust, is her son.

He seems pleased with himself, though.

Setting down the tray, Magdoina notices a wooden block on the desk,

itself made up of multiple colored cubes.

This must be what all the fuss has been about.

She reaches out to pick it up, but he stops her.

He says it's not quite ready yet.

It still needs a few finishing touches.

Magdoina smiles. There's no point in arguing with the perfectionist she's raised,

but she knows him too well. This morning, he's achieved something important.

...