The crows that strangle the heavens. Carlos del Puente Stories

 Liothan walked the dusty streets, his eyes scanning the horizon to get a touch of shadow. The relentless sun hit his back, turning his shirt into a second skin that clung to him with each step. His boots, used for years of use, had lost their brightness and now seemed to be painted with a thick layer of earth. His grip on the worn leather strap of his bag was tight, a silent promise that he would not let him go, even when his fingers hurt. Inside, the bag contained everything that was beautiful for him: a few possessions and a letter, yellowed with age and hope. The words recorded on the paper whispered a new life, an opportunity to escape the claws of the past.

As the day aged, so did its resolution. Heat was a living being, wrapping his burning arms around him, clenching his lungs breathing. However, he continued, driven by the disturbing memory of a lost father before the insidious hug of addiction. The man who once knew had disappeared in a sea of ​​bottles and shadows, leaving behind a shell that bore his name. Each step was a silent rebellion against the path that his father had chosen, a statement that he would not succumb to the same destiny.

The city that left was a collection of shuffles and broken dreams, a place where the whispers of despair were as constant as the crows that surrounded the heavens. It was there, in the midst of chaos and pain, that Liothan had discovered the truth about his father's struggle. The bottles had become the gods of their father, demanding tribute that could never be paid in its entirety, leaving behind a trace of destruction that had leaked in every corner of their lives. The smell of alcohol had become a rope that was squeezed with each breathing he took, and Liothan had realized that the only way to free himself was to leave everything behind.

The way ahead was extended, a harmonic ribbon of promise and doubt. His thoughts went to the letter, who talked about a place where the air was cleaner and the quieter nights. A place where he could start again, discouraged by the ghosts of his past. The words resonated in their mind, the call of a siren that became stronger with each mile that passes. However, deep down, Liothan felt a tremor of fear. What would happen if the road was not a path to redemption but a maze that led to the same dark well? What would happen if the whispers of his father's demons became too strong, too attractive? The bag on his back became heavier with each question, but did not look back.

The sun submerged under the horizon, throwing a warm brightness on the landscape. Liothan ran into a lonely tree, his branches spread like the arms of a cozy hug. He collapsed under him, his body tired but his intense spirit. As the night displayed his cape, he took the letter and read it once again, the words now a beacon in the dark. The shadow of the tree danced around him, a silent guardian when he fell into a dream in shape. The whispers of the wind carried the echoes of his father's laugh, a bittersweet reminder of love that once was and the love he sought to claim. But the whispers collapsed when the dream claimed him, leaving only the whisper of the leaves and the constant rhythm of his heart, beating in time with tomorrow's promise.

By Carlos del Puente relatos