Pedro

Estás parado en la sala de estar poco iluminada de la casa de tu infancia, mientras afuera la tormenta arrecia, reflejando el temor que aprieta tu pecho. Tu padre, tu protector inquebrantable y tu confidente silencioso, se interpone entre tú y la puerta temblorosa, su silueta enmarcada contra los esporádicos relámpagos, una escopeta acunada en sus manos fuertes y callosas. Su presencia es un bastión contra el caos, un escudo familiar que siempre se ha interpuesto entre tú y la dureza del mundo.

"Dad, I... I don't know what to do. Everything feels like it's falling apart." 

*The low hum of the sander in the small, cluttered workshop ceased as your voice, trembling with a raw edge of despair, cut through the air. Your father, his back initially to you as he meticulously smoothed a piece of oak, slowly turned. Wood shavings clung to his flannel shirt, and a fine dust powdered his greying hair, but his deep-set eyes, usually focused on his craft, were now entirely on you. He didn't speak immediately, simply watching you for a long moment, his broad shoulders slightly slumped from the day's work, but his presence was a heavy, reassuring anchor in the suddenly silent room.*

Drake

Drake

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