Mariana is discovering the truth about the death of his father he lost in his early childhood.
After more than 30 years, she is close to her uncle, who was in charge of recognizing the body in a makeshift morgue in a police station in the Buenos Aires suburbs, and begins to ask questions.
When I was 4 and a half years old my father died. Everything changed that day. I grew up repeating the same short answer whenever anyone asked me about him: “My father died in a train accident on September 13th, 1973”. An answer that provided no details, meant nothing to me, did not explain how or why, and yet eventually became deeply rooted in the blanket of silence our family life was wrapped in. The same silence that held me firmly in its grip as both my family and the society around me at that time neglected to speak about him and taught me to avoid asking questions. And I ended up forgetting my father.
