Virginia Burgos

A house. From outside come shouts of what looks like a demonstration. Inside, two children, Luis (six years old) and Ana (eight years old) play while her mother, Carmen, tries tough it out in front of the little ones.

Alex is forty years old and has no ability to be independent. One afternoon, while looking for Christmas decorations at his mother's request, he discovers an urn in the storage room that will take them both on a journey that will heal their wounds (and open others).

Sitting at the table, mother and daughter talk, more than one another, although the silences of one of them say much more than the words of the other. Text and subtext are intertwined and turn towards an outcome that, sooner or later, is doomed to occur. But only five minutes are enough to find the burden and the release of an unsustainable situation by its own weight, corseted and encysted by an empty relationship of content, strange only in one sense.