Author's Note: Well, here I am with a new Coco story! I admit this first chapter is pretty short and slow moving, but things will pick up, I promise! For the purpose of switching between flashbacks and present day in the Land of the Dead, a double line symbolizes a switch between the two times. A single line will be used for division within one of the eras. Imelda's flashbacks are occurring in 1921. My summary sucks. The story will be better than the summary. I hope. Thanks for giving it a chance! :)


Imelda Rivera was twenty-two when her husband, her Héctor, left. She did not see him again for nearly a century. And now that she did, brought together by, of all people, her great-great-grandson, she truly did not know how to handle it. She didn't even know how to react. Imelda had always been the one who had it together, the one who kept her emotions in check, and she liked it that way. It was easier to avoid being hurt. It was even easier to pretend no one affected you. She had become an expert, a devotee in the art of acting insouciant, and presently all her expertise was failing her. It had only happened once before, and she was not inclined for a repeat incident.

Now her Héctor walked beside her, the man she had given her heart and soul to so many years ago. A man she had gradually forced herself to push out of her heart, forcing herself to turn bitter towards his memory, until he was nothing more than a patch of her past. A past she could not fully forget, no matter how much she tried.

"So . . . how have you been?" he finally offered tentatively. Imelda raised one eyebrow.

"How have I been?" she returned. "That's our first exchange here?"

"I just avoided the Final Death, Imelda. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one. You know I was never the best with words anyway."

She had to smile a bit at that one. It was true. He never had been. It was part of his charm. She avoided the last sentence in her reply, however. She did not want to even start delving into their past.

"I'm amazed Miguel pulled it off," she said, putting more space between them. "I suppose I should have expected as much from that boy."

"And our Coco."

Imelda stiffened. This was not going in the direction she wanted it to, not a direction she was ready for.

"I'll see you back at the house, Héctor." She began to walk away from him, away from painful memories.

"The house?"

She turned to face him.

"Yes. The house. Go get your things."


Imelda glanced out the window for about the fifth time that morning. Or was it six? Not that she was counting.

Get it together, Imelda. ¡Animate! If a letter comes, it comes. If it doesn't, it doesn't. You peering out the window for it won't make it arrive any sooner.

She wished she would listen to herself. This was now the third week she hadn't heard from her husband, an oddity where they were concerned. When he had first left on tour with Ernesto, she had received at least a letter every other day. And then, they stopped. Abruptly. Forebodingly. She didn't like the feeling their end had put in her stomach, and she liked even less the implications it put in her mind. What had happened? It was so unlike Héctor, and she couldn't find even one explanation for the letters' absence that appealed to her, or even one that she could accept. And so she continued watching for a letter. Diligently. Plaintively.


The next week, she found herself starting to compose explanations, stories really, for Coco for her papá's absence. She thought her daughter believed her. She didn't see a reason why she wouldn't. Coco was only three. Lying to her three year old daughter.

Where the hell are you, Héctor? Why haven't you written me? Told me anything. One word. By God, you better get yourself together and come back to us.

Imelda's carefully cultivated skills were failing her. Her emotions were cracking, but her wall against others was going up more than ever. Every time she went out, every time she took a step into the market, she was besieged by the veiled comments of others. So that musician of yours is still gone, they would say, with a pointed emphasis on musician and still. And she would grit her teeth, force a smile, and excuse her way out of earshot, away from the gossips she knew tittered behind her back.


By the sixth week, she had come to a decision. A cold, hard one. Her mind was going absolutely loco with the possible explanations for her husband's absence. They had only grown more vicious, turning her own mind against her. She had allowed herself to consider more than once if Héctor had truly left her, her and Coco, for something else. Or rather, maybe someone else. The first time the concept peeked into her head, Imelda found herself physically smacking it out. The next time, she entertained it until she cursed herself for her own disloyalty. And the next, she ended up curling up in bed and taking a nap to clear her head. But it didn't. She only dreamed of Héctor, her Héctor, leaving her, and telling her exactly why. When she awoke, cold despite the warm temperature of the house, Imelda knew she had to get some answers. She had to know, had to disprove the stories that her own mind was throwing at her. She would take a trip. Her husband had to be somewhere.


A/N: See, I told you it'd be pretty slow and short! This is just to get this story moving and on the road. I'll be trying to do regular updates, at least once a week if not every few days. Reviews give me life + incentive, so please do leave one if you enjoyed now or later down the road. 3