Hiya folks! For those of you who are following my other longfic, Neither Can You, you're probably wondering why I'm posting a new fic instead of updating that. No worriers! This is a fic I've had half-finished for a while and I think I'm good to start posting it-it'll only be 6 chapters long. NCY is still being chipped away at, so you'll see the next chapter in the future. (Just two chapters and an epilogue left on that one!)

So... Here's another fic for you! Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading for me. Enjoy!


"Hi," said the little leatherwing bat,

"I'll tell to you the reason that

The reason that I fly by night

Is because I lost my heart's delight."

- Peter Paul and Mary, "Leatherwing Bat"

It was too quiet in the apartment.

Normally when things felt too quiet, Héctor would fill the void with music—humming, tapping, or strumming his guitar if it was close by. But now he felt like doing none of those things. He couldn't do any of those things.

He lay on his back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, as he had been doing for over a day now, trying to will himself to disappear.

Just like his parents had.

After all, what was the point in anything else? They were gone. He'd lost them, just like he had when he was young. Except this time he didn't have anyone to pull him out of the numb blankness he'd fallen into—he had no one to comfort him, to tell him it would be all right, to distract him from the agony swallowing him whole. They were gone too, on the other side of an impassable gulf—at least, impassable to him, and… to them.

He might have cried at the thought if he hadn't already. And he had cried—he'd cried and screamed and howled until the landlord barged into the apartment to find out what was happening. Héctor had probably attacked him in his hysteria, but he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember much else about what had happened, other than that the landlord was gone now and he'd screamed himself hoarse.

Would he get kicked out? Possibly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't do anything.

He was just going to lie here until he disappeared.

Tap.

The noise cut through his numbness. It came from the window, but he didn't care to look up to see what it was.

Tap.

Again, there it was. The thought crossed his mind that someone might be tapping on the window, but he dismissed it. He was at least eight floors up in this stupidly tall building. Anyway, it didn't matter.

Tap.

How long had that been going on? Was he only just now noticing?

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound continued, picking up in pace until Héctor's eye twitched, and he sat up abruptly, wincing at the creaking in his bones. Strangely, there was nothing there—all he could see outside were the mockingly bright colors of the Land of the Dead. What right did this place—this place where people just disappeared without warning—have to look so bright and cheerful and—?!

It wasn't without warning; you just didn't want to see the signs, and they didn't want to tell you.

They should have told him earlier, they should have given him time to prepare, he would have spent more time with them if he'd known—it wasn't fair, how could they do this to him, it wasn't fair

A sharp pain snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized he'd been clutching at his wrist until the bones were straining under the pressure. Forcibly he let go, grabbing a nearby blanket instead and pulling on it, tugging and yanking until it tore. With a sick twist in his gut he remembered that the blanket was one of the ones his mother had made, and he clutched it, pressing it against his face with a snarl.

For some time he just sat there, holding the blanket close to him and shaking.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap tap tap tap tap—

Héctor tossed the blanket aside, grabbed a nearby glass, and threw it. It shattered just below the far window, days-old water dripping down the wall and around the shards of glass. And once again, there was nothing at the window.

I'm losing my mind, he thought, lowering his head into his hands and grasping at his hair. His rib cage heaved.

When he looked back up again, his eyes fell on the pile of broken glass. I can't leave it there, he realized. Someone will step on it.

He was the only one in the apartment, and he hadn't planned on leaving the couch anytime soon. But the thought nagged at him, so he eased himself to his feet, stared at the glass for another moment, and left to find the broom.

Bone wasn't cut as easily as flesh, but he tried to move as carefully as his shaking hands would allow as he collected the shards into a cloth and threw them away. For another long moment he simply stood by the trash bin, feeling like he might heave into it if he still had a stomach. But he couldn't stand here forever, so he should probably go back to sitting on the couch, or something.

Tap, tap, tap.

Without thinking he rushed to the window to try to catch a glimpse of what was making the noise, to prove (to whom?) that he wasn't losing his mind. Just as he saw a flash of an unidentifiable shape outside, his foot caught something, and he slipped, crashing to the floor in a noisy clatter and clash of bones. With a pained groan he pulled himself back together, sitting up and rolling his shoulders. His body ached more from disuse than from the fall.

Héctor went to push himself upright, only to find that he was missing two digits on his right hand. Frowning, he tried to summon them back, and heard them clack lightly against something propped against the wall:

His guitar case.

Silently he rose, gripping the handle of the case and pulling it away, allowing his missing fingers to zip back over to his hand. He found himself sitting down on the couch again, guitar case in his lap, and staring down at it.

Did he really want to do this?

Papá got it for me, he thought distantly, and he removed it from the case mechanically, running his phalanges over the polished wood. And he doesn't like things being wasted.

When his papá ran the panadería, he would strive to make sure nothing was wasted, taking home anything that was soon to go stale, and eating it while it was still edible. Some days Héctor was grateful for the food, prepared by his own papá; other days he felt he would be sick if he had to look at another piece of bread.

Right now, he felt more like the latter as he stared at the strings, imagining himself coaxing music from them. He felt sick at the thought of playing again—it felt wrong, after something like this, to make something that brought joy, in the face of this kind of devastating sorrow.

Another memory arose, this time of Imelda and Ernesto sitting on either side of him, Imelda's arms around his shaking frame, and Ernesto's firm hand on his back. At one point Ernesto had stepped away, and he had wanted to cry out for his friend to come back, only to stop upon hearing the familiar sound of heavy wood being lifted, of strings creaking. Imelda had sighed into his shoulder, not in annoyance. Shortly after, Ernesto had begun to play, and soon Imelda's shaking voice joined his music. The song itself hadn't mattered as much as the knowledge that his friends were there, their music carrying him away from the pain and cruelties of the world, at least for a little while.

He found himself holding the guitar, his shaking hands picking out the tune his hermano had played years ago. He didn't have the voice to sing the words, but it was better that way. He closed his eyes, imagining Ernesto playing the music, imagining Imelda's voice, shaky but soft, against his shoulder.