Now they’re two. Let’s call them D and J. One has a beard, the other a moustache. On a narrow street they walk, between facades that seems inclined towards the street. If they turn around they see a church. In the cemetery a grave, and under the stone lies a man who was once a prime minister. Respected by many. If they don’t turn around, which they don’t, and look forward instead, which they don’t either since they need to look out for spots of ice, they see a blue building. Inside the building is music and if we listen carefully, it plays for us, although we are somewhere else. We’re the ones they’re looking for. Even though it’s a Sunday, they’re here. On Sundays they usually rest. Play tennis and football. One with hands, the other with feet. This is what they are like these two. Like peas in different pods. One’s loss the other’s gain, but not in this case. They’re independently dependent on the other but look, I’m rambling, what we established so far though is that D and J are in some way attached but at the same time pulled in different directions. Perhaps we can compare them to the earth and the moon, apples and oranges or Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but that would leave us none the wiser. It has also been hinted that there is two of them now, but that usually there’s more. That they are looking for someone. Somebody that although it is Sunday has disappeared. Got lost. This is where we now stand, and then we stand on Olofsgatan looking at the boys rounding a corner, disappearing in the crowd on Kungsgatan. 
Snow is falling and covering Hötorget in winter silence. A couple of taxi cabs pass but make no sound. Hybrid engines and tires against snow. They cross the street where a crossing is usually visible, they seem to be talking. Talking about how we could disappear like that. Everything seemed to be going fine. Clients were happy and were even coming back. Back to our small shop on Olofsgatan. There is no bell on the door but it is the feeling you get when someone stomps the snow off their boots in the small niche outside our door, opens the door, and comes in. Ding. In to the shop and someone gets up and checks if the coffee is done, and someone else says hey, how can we help you today. A day like this. A day like any day. Ding. Yes, of course. Ding. We’ll take care of it. Ding. Our pleasure. Ding. Welcome back. Ding. Ding. Dingeling. Then we were gone. Poof. Just like that. They have been looking for us since Friday when we seemed to disappear. Shop cleaned, drawing machines turned off. Gone. We were quite sure it was temporary, that we just needed a break. That we had been working fairly hard didn’t usually make any difference, but it is that time of year when everybody can use a break. A small intermission. It was never our intention to disappear without telling anyone though. D and J were determined to find us by themselves. They wanted to be sure we were safe before the storm. Before the snow fall. Now it falls. On Hötorget, and the hole square looks like one of those bulbs filled with water that you shake and look inside of. Today is flea market. Snow is falling on brass candelabras, vinyl records, heavy metal shirts, christmas decorations, lovikka mittens, pots and pans and look at that, a ship in a bottle. A ship inside of a bottle and how the hell did it get in there, but it looks pretty authentic and there’s no line in the glass. They look at each other and into the bottle. It’s snowing in there. Snowing and blowing. The sails are filled with wind, waves crash over the railing and freezes when it hits the deck. The ship seems to be headed for a cliff and it’s rudderless, or wait just a minute now for there stands a small guy lashed to the rudder with finest thread. He waves and seems to be screaming something. And at the top of the mast in one of those baskets they put up there to make it easier to look for dangerous things in the distance, stands a girl holding on for dear life. She is also waving her arms when she can let go for a second, yelling and hollering. Out of a latch on deck a head shows up and goes back down as a wave crashes in. Then he tries again and makes it up on deck. Behind one of the masts is another one, the lookout climbs down and finally nine sailors are standing on deck counting to three. They count to three to be able to scream with one voice. D and J is frozen to the ground, looking into the bottle. And they hear it. Music coming from the blue building and a scream from inside the bottle. One, Two, Three, Go inside! And they unfreeze, gives the monger a twenty for the bottle and runs for the stairs in front of the blue building. Up the stairs now and in through the doors. The wind is howling and the snow gathers for a last swirl and throws the doors shut behind them. D gets pushed by the door and the bottle goes flying through the air in slow motion. J gets up and throws himself through the air. Like a goalie with the cameras on him he looks as he sails under the wide arch of the bottle, and he lands. He lands and stretches out. He catches the bottle just as it was about to shatter on the stone floor. All is silent now. The storm shut out, unable to get in. And then, a sound. Strings playing in another room and voices from inside a bottle. They sit down on the floor with their backs against a wall looking into the bottle. The snow is no longer falling inside. The sea looks like a mirror and the sails are hanging like drying bed sheets in a calm. From the stern runs a line into the water. The anchor. A small boat is making its way to a small island that wasn’t there before. Palm trees are barely moving and the sun is at the very top of a clear blue sky. They squint as the boat hits the sand and nine little mariners jump both readily and ably out of the boat and onto the beach. They wave, wave and line up with their feet in the sand. They sing. It’s not possible to hear them sing but they look happy. D and J look at each other. They were probably never lost, they think. They probably just needed to get away from us for a while, be alone for a while, sail out a storm in a bottle for a while. Stand on a beach for a moment and sing a song about christmas. A song not audible but tangible, and when our friends step out onto the stairs again, the storm has settled and so has the snow. Settled on the square, settled over the city, settled on the small street leading to the church. D and J hide the bottle from the cold and walk the short distance to the shop. They put the bottle in the warmth in the window, shut the door and hit the alarm, lock the gate and turn around. It’s dark inside, dark outside, but in the bottle, the sun is shining.

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