Cartas a una bala

Fifty-six days before taking his own life, my father sent me a definition of love. A prophecy I failed to decipher. After his death, all that remained was the echo of a bullet and a shattered "why." I responded with letters. In them, I don't seek answers, but rather a space to converse with his absence. An intimate dialogue to forgive his choice and to decipher whether I failed to see his pain or whether he never learned to show it. This book is that conversation; a wound that becomes a window.