London siblings

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Once upon a time...

— It seems unreal to me, that the long fields bordered by leafy trees and guarded by small chalets with stone facades give way to this huge city that threatens the sky with its pointed skyscrapers.

— (sighs) Really, Giny? It's like any other European capital.

— Shh, Henry. To be more accurate they are no longer Europe. The British left the European Union.

— It's so true. I'll never stop wondering how they ever thought it was a good idea.

— Look on the bright side, “my dear brother”, we are in the capital of rain, of buildings with brick facades and carpeted floors. The capital of *cozy* afternoons reading on the couch while the rain drums against the window.

— Poor London what awaits it with you here and your verbiage.

— And last but not least. The capital of the disturbing, the sinister, of crime, of murders.

— Yeah, yeah, and the birthplace of many of the works of Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

— You take the excitement out of everything, *bro*. (He makes a square with the fingers of both hands, framing a skyscraper.) See that building that has a framed section with lights?

— Yes, what about him?

— A murder took place there.

— (He slaps his palm to his forehead.) We've only been in London for a day and already I regret bringing you.

— Think about it, there have been murders all over London! Two of Henry VIII's wives were beheaded in the Tower of London. The legend of Jack the Ripper was born here. Not to mention that King Charles I was killed by Parliament for snooping in the House of Commons.

— I think that was more for staging that the king has no power to legislate.

— Tsh, tsh, don't interrupt me. Because if there's one thing that's cooler than murder stories, it's ghost stories, and then we can only talk about Westminster Abbey and its graveyard.

— He crosses his arms and puts on a half smile. If you continue with your stories, the one who will end up in the Westminster Poets' Corner will be you.

— (Giny blushes and hides behind the sheet of her raincoat). I wish I were a renowned writer of William Shakespeare's stature. But the stories I write are just to clear my mind after work.

— (Henry laughs).

— What are you laughing at?

— I'll tell you when we get home.

— (She inflate her cheeks, annoyed.) Tell me. I'm your lil'sis and you can't resist my little sister charms.

— I'll just tell you that if your current job is getting on your nerves that much, you should find another one.

— Don't try to distract me from the main issue, mister. We're on a getaway to London to forget about our respective jobs, do you remember?

— And to find inspiration for our stories.

— Ours? Do you also write?

— Yes, also to escape from the marathon of misfortunes that our generation has had to live through.

— What a nice choice of words, bro. When we get back home show me some of what you've written, I'm infinitely curious.

— (He points to the flag at the top of Buckingham Palace) Remember what the tour guide told us about what that flag means?

— Yes, of course! The king is in the palace. Do you think that if we stay here we will be able to see him?

— I don't know, but I wouldn't bet on it.

In that innocent moment, Buckingham Palace explodes into a thousand pieces. In the midst of all the chaos you could only hear "Death to capitalism, monarchy and all the traditions that don't work".

A few days after returning home Giny receives an email from a publishing house with the unexpected news that they will publish the anthology of short stories she wrote to forget about her old job. She asked to add a dedication: "In memory of my dear brother".

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