This is how the novel that won the 2025 Clarín Novel Prize begins.

Shortly after waking up, as I was about to enter the kitchen, a fly buzzed past my right ear. Large and fat, very black.

First I heard the buzzing, then I saw it, and then I remembered that the night before, while I was reading in bed, a fly had entered my bedroom. Flies aren't common in England in the dead of winter, but I didn't think much of it. I watched it without getting out of bed. It'll wander around the house for a few hours, I thought, and find a way out. Or maybe it won't. I imagined it roaming the house alone, crashing into each window several times before trying the next, going in and out of room after room, wondering what kind of macabre joke this was. Where was the exit? Who had locked it in there, and why? Its flapping would become more frantic as its anxiety grew, and then heavier as its weariness grew. Was its time coming? Was it really going to die in such a foolish way? The poor fly would still take a long time to accept that those cold walls would be its tomb, but little by little it would accept its defeat, and after a couple of days, exhausted, it would retreat to a secluded place and there it would lie down to wait for the end.

That's what I thought last night from my bed as I watched the fly crawl around my room very slowly, almost in slow motion, as if it had been sent on a reconnaissance mission or as if it were flying in its sleep, sleepwalking. I felt sorry for it. I was tempted to get up, open a window, and help it out, but after half an hour lying there, I had finally managed to warm the sheets, and I wasn't about to go out for anything in the world. Besides, the poor fly probably didn't want to go outside either.

It was freezing cold and it seemed unlikely to me that any fly, not even a well-fed one like that, would survive more than a couple of hours in the damp London night.

I concentrated on the book I was reading and soon after I fell asleep.

In the morning, when I woke up, I had completely forgotten about the fly.

Now that I was no longer under the comfort of my duvet, the cold consumed all my thoughts. The sensible thing would have been to turn on the heating, but my salary doesn't stretch to that kind of luxury, and I'm not complaining. I consider myself lucky to be able to rent an apartment for myself, and if that leaves me little room for other expenses, I gladly accept it.

My way of fighting the cold is to bundle up in four layers of clothing as soon as I get out of bed, and that's exactly what I did this morning. I went into the bathroom, came out, and lo and behold, as I was heading to the kitchen, I ran into it again. The fly. It was the same one as last night, I thought. It couldn't be any other. Black, with bluish reflections and the size of a pistachio, it was an imposing blowfly, but it flew so slowly, so gently, that it didn't disgust me, but rather filled me with tenderness.

"Haven't you found the exit yet?" I said.

In response, she simply continued floating around the room, like a hot air balloon, carried along by the invisible currents of icy air that swept through my house. She, too, seemed to be heading for the kitchen. We went in together, and then I saw the others. There were about twenty of them. Big and fat, just like the other one. They were resting on the windowpane behind the sink. I stopped dead in my tracks. What was going on? Twenty flies the size of pistachios are not a pleasant sight, especially when you've just gotten up and are about to make breakfast. I thought about swatting them to death. Not with my bare hands, but with the help of a piece of cardboard or an advertising leaflet.

But the mere thought of smashing them against the glass made my stomach churn. It would have been different if they'd been ordinary flies, but those winged monsters must have had a good amount of blood inside—heart, stomach, intestines—and I didn't fancy spending the morning picking up bits of wings covered in viscera. Besides, I would have felt bad about myself. I'm not a psychopath. Beyond a certain size, every animal or creature acquires certain rights, and the most basic of these is the right to life. Killing them without just cause is murder. Those flies were big enough to enjoy a whole bill of fundamental rights, and I have always respected fundamental rights.

"Let there be peace," I said as I slowly moved toward the window. "Don't get upset, flies. I don't want to hurt you."

They waited motionless, expectant. The slightest false move on my part would send them scattering, instantly eliminating any possibility of subduing them. They would swarm around me like a whirlwind of black pistachios, working together to disorient me, then abandon the kitchen and colonize the entire house. I had to remain calm.

I slowly reached for the window handle. A fly darted away across the glass. I turned the handle. Those who have lived in these parts will know that many English windows have the peculiarity of never opening fully, but only a foot or two. I believe the purpose is to prevent burglars from entering.

Here, most people live in houses, not apartment blocks, and bars aren't considered good taste. A window that never fully opens is a simple and elegant trick to shield your home from intruders, but it doesn't make things any easier if your goal is to expel a swarm of giant flies from your kitchen. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and tried to gently guide them toward the opening. One of them took flight, not toward the opening, but generally, nowhere in particular. Then another, and then another. They did so in orderly succession, not all at once and wildly, and that helped me avoid panicking. I held my arms out like a scarecrow to prevent them from escaping into the living room. I cornered one, cornered it until it had no choice but to escape through the half-open window, and then, arming myself with patience, I did the same with the others. After half an hour, there wasn't a fly in sight. I closed the window and sighed with relief.