Cold wave is not a novel about drugs and alcohol or descent into the hells of addiction. Nor is it a novel about the economic crisis or how it changed the face of the city of Madrid forever. It is not the story of an individual or collective failure. It is not just a devastating portrait of loneliness and despair. It is not a treatise on a naked sexuality. In no case is a moral story, you have not message or moral. Cold wave contains in its pages all the aforementioned, but also houses the opposite. There is abstinence and redemption. There is a deep and urgent desire to find peace and meaning to an empty life. There is a remote but growing whisper of hope. It is the portrait of a recovered vital impulse that struggles to escape inherited curse. The first stroke of a sketch of a life to live and, at the same time, the mourning for a life wasted. A heartbreaking change of skin that is born with the first cold winter night in Madrid.