The man had just crossed the gate when he heard his daughter’s cries coming from the pigsty behind the house. The scene before his eyes was so devastating that even a war-hardened soldier had to remain motionless. But it was the way he handled the situation that changed the entire town’s way of seeing things. One can travel hundreds of kilometers, cross deserts and mountains, but sometimes the distance between two people is nothing more than a letter that never reached its destination.
Tomás Herrera remained silent, sitting by the bus window, his hands in exactly the same position since the vehicle left the northern terminal. Between his legs rested a dusty, but tidy, earth-colored backpack. The palm of his hand was slightly damp, not from sweat, but from the worn paper he was holding, with blue ink, which now remained only as a blurred line, almost like chalk. It was the letter she had just read for the third time since leaving the barracks, and like every time, the ending always left her throat dry.
Dad, I didn’t have breakfast today. Mama Miriam said there were no more eggs at the house, but I saw the woman who sells them walk by. I didn’t ask anything, because if I asked, they’d leave me outside in the yard. I’m telling you so that when you get back, you can knock on the back door, because the front one is locked. The handwriting was shaky, tilted to the left. Each word, written with the clumsiness of a child’s hand, still developing but full of determination, Alma wrote as if she were afraid someone would tear the letter, or worse, not even read it.
Tomás lowered his head and turned to the next page. Each letter showed signs of having been opened. Some were slightly torn at the edges, as if someone had hesitated before deciding not to send them. One of them had stains that looked like rain, but Tomás knew very well that there was no storm inside a sealed envelope. The bus driver, a man with graying hair and a wrinkled face, thin but agile, suddenly broke the silence. “You’re a soldier.
That old backpack says a lot.” Tomás raised his head, closed the packet of letters, and placed it on his lap. “Yes, I just returned after four years.” The driver nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. Silence once again took over the space between them for a few minutes. The bus shook along the stony road that led south, flanked by rows of sturdy cacti. As they were about to reach the second fork, the one that connected to the dirt road that crossed the ranches, the driver murmured, almost inaudible.
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they say a girl from the Herrera family was locked in the pigsty. A whole week without food. How horrible! Tomás shuddered. The name Herrera wasn’t common in these parts. And that girl turned her face away, trying hard to remain calm. What did she say? What girl? The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and gave a wry smile. No, nothing. You know how it is in the town. There are always rumors. Maybe she was just grounded outside in the yard.
Nothing serious. Tomás didn’t respond. He looked out the window again, but this time he saw nothing. His mind began to spin like a whirlwind. The bus continued moving slowly, bumping from pothole to pothole. But inside Tomás, all the sounds seemed compressed. The letters, the words that returned again and again like an echo in a forgotten well. He had left his daughter in Miriam’s care on the very day of his wife’s funeral. Alma was barely 3 years old.
