I don't believe it.

The thing he'd reached towards for so long was in his grasp, and Héctor had no clue what to do with it. He'd never made it this far before, in his many years of trying; he was used to desperation, watching his hopes fall along with the flickering embers of holiday fireworks. Any moment, he expected to wake from the dream, or worse—for it to become a nightmare. For some change, for the hands grasping his to vanish, for the magic to stop working, for the surely inevitable lurch in his stomach as he fell into darkness through an unforgiving sea of orange.

He had to have been hurting his family; his grip was so tight that he was hurting his own fingers, the digits going numb even though there was no circulation to cut off. However, no one said a word about it, or tried to shake him off.

Coco was talking animatedly with Rosita, clearly bursting with anticipation for the annual visit. She'd only joined them three months before Día de Muertos; despite her joy at reuniting with her loved ones on the other side, she missed her family in the Land of the Living. It was a normal occurrence for the newly deceased, and she was lucky that she hadn't had to wait long to see them again.

He looked over to see Imelda watching him, a gentle smile on her face. His heart warmed at the sight, emotion filling his chest to bursting and even climbing up his throat. There was so many things he wanted to say to her, but the lump in his throat choked any words that tried to come out. He stopped trying to speak, knowing that it was pointless, and instead tried to match her smile. It wavered unsteadily on his face, the lingering fear in the back of his mind keeping it from taking hold. Any minute he expected the guards to come running after them, to drag him back and say that there'd been a mistake, that he couldn't go back after all, that he'd have to come with them and wait for the rest of his family on the other side of the gates….

They reached the crest of the bridge and Héctor faltered, unable to go on as he stared over the place he'd once called home. The cemetery lay spread before them, glowing orange with the light of thousands of candles reflecting marigold petals. Beyond that the houses were dark, streetlamps mapping the path of roads as they wound between the roofs. A century of progress had shaped Santa Cecelia, and he couldn't recognize it anymore. It was no longer his.

Screwing his eyes shut, his head swirled with the thought. Some small part of him had imagined that it would match the memory of what he'd left behind. This was something entirely new, and strangely heartbreaking. It served to remind him about what he'd been denied so many years. This was the place Miguel had come from, the place where his progeny lived and worked and dreamed, but… it was not his home. He'd spent more time in the Land of the Dead than he had Santa Cecelia. The realization was alarming.

"You go on ahead." He opened his eyes just in time to see Imelda letting go of Felipe's hand. She nodded to the others, still smiling. "I'm sure you're ready to be home," she said to Coco particularly.

"Sí, Mamá." Coco glanced at him, uncertain. "But—"

"We'll catch up," he managed to assure her, his voice scratchy and weak. "We'll meet you there." He forced his fingers to unclench, letting her hand slip from his. "Go and make sure the path is straight," he joked.

"Oh, the twins will be old enough to use rulers now," Coco laughed, winking at her mother. "It'll be the way you like it." Imelda scoffed good-naturedly, rolling her eyes before waving them on with her free hand. "Vamonos, Julio."

"Of course, mi a—ah!" Julio stumbled, nearly losing his skull as Coco grabbed his hand. She yanked them after her, Rosita jogging to keep up as they sped down the other side of the bridge. It was funny, in a way, to see a woman who'd been dependent on a wheelchair able to outrun both her husband and her sister-in-law. The twins shrugged and waved before chasing after them, Victoria bringing up the rear at her own brisk, yet unhurried pace. Héctor started to move, but Imelda kept him grounded with a soft touch to his upper arm.

"Just a minute," she murmured, adjusting their grip so that she could lace her fingers through his. Others swarmed around them, heading down the fragrant blossoms towards the living souls below. "It's changed a little since you and I were here last," she said slowly, resting her head on his shoulder.

"A little?" he parroted, swallowing thickly. "I…"

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the sight, he looked past Santa Cecelia to the world beyond. The town had changed, but the land hadn't. There were the distant mountains, and somewhere beyond them there was the land he and Ernesto had travelled on the train. There was the broad bend of the river, disappearing into the forest where the thick pines still reached for the stars the same way they had when he was living. There were the flat planes of land where the fields once stood, the hills and divots he'd walked year after year. Beyond the hill was the quarry, close to where Imelda's house had been… was it still there?

He looked down at her, feeling the urge to say something. There was a certain peace to the sight of the nature that had remained, but he didn't have the words to voice his thoughts. Even if he could sing about them he didn't know how to condense the rightness of it, the thought that people could move on while the trees, the hills, the river stayed behind.

Imelda gently tugged him on, and they walked together down the bridge. He stopped before the barrier, hesitant to cross the shimmering layer of pale light between the bridge and the dark world beyond. Imelda stepped through confidently; he gasped in terror as her bones took up an orangey-golden glow, visible through her clothing. No! He followed more out of concern for her safety than his own volition, stopping only when he saw his outstretched hands glowing with the same light.

Imelda wasn't surprised, and he felt fine, normal. There was no shortness of breath or weakness, no tremors racketing up his spine or through his ribs. He wasn't disappearing, which meant she wasn't, either. This wasn't a Final Death glow; this was something preternatural, tying them to the Land of the Dead instead of this solid, living world. He looked around, seeing other skeletons sporting the same see-through look as they reunited with their living relatives.

Speaking of… Héctor looked from one side to the other, mouth twisting as he saw the occupants of the cemetery. There were so many living people in the living world. After years of being a skeleton, seeing nothing but other skeletons (aside from Miguel, of course), the sight of fleshy humans seemed unnatural. Ugly, in some cases. Where were their phalanges? Their fibulas, their tibias? Their spines?!

"Mira," he mumbled, nudging Imelda as he pointed subtly to an old couple teetering towards a gravestone. "They're so… saggy."

"What?" Imelda followed his finger, brow furrowing. "They're just old."

"I mean, yes, but—" He was at a loss for words. He'd actually forgotten that people looked like that. Of course he'd seen photos of his living relatives—Imelda had an entire book full of photos, and in color, too! —but none of them had skin all smushed like un sabueso.

The novelty of it wasn't lost on him as he looked around. Fat—people had fat, didn't they? No one changed dress sizes in the Land of the Dead, but living people could be skinny or fat or… or whatever! They had freckles, dimples, moles, scars, scratches, dents, bags under their eyes and pierced cartilage anywhere and everywhere. ¡Qué raro!

"Mamá! Papá!" They gasped as a small skeleton pushed between them, making a beeline for a young couple standing forlorn before a solitary grave. "Tío Carlos, hurry up!" she called, skull spinning on her spine as she raced through living souls in her rush.

"Perdonanos," a middle-aged man laughed awkwardly, hurrying past them with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His alebrije dropped to the ground as it crossed the barrier, shaking itself off as it took the form of a normal terrier before bounding towards the gravesite after the girl. "It's her first year back," he excused her, shaking his head with a grimace and a half-shrug.

"It's alright," he replied, smiling fondly at the child. "It's actually mine, too."

"Tío, come on!" The man nodded to them before jogging after the girl, gesturing wildly for her to lower her voice as he ducked around families.

"How sad…" Imelda shook her head. "Children shouldn't die before their parents."

"No," he agreed. "They shouldn't." He reached for her hand again, internally sighing in relief as she took it. They'd been parted for so long that each touch was a miracle, something to be savored. He'd spend every waking moment with her if he could, even if he did get to hold her all night long. There was so much lost time to be made up, and her embrace was still so warm and inviting… he'd gladly stay in her arms until the Final Death came back for round two.

"Belo! Bela!" A little toddler danced around a grave to their left. "I drew you an offering!" Her papá lifted her up to place a finger painting on the stone, and the two skeletons watching them picked up a phantom copy to look at.

"Oh, she's already so talented!" the abuela gushed, proudly showing it to her husband.

"She'll be as good an artist as her mother someday," the abuelo added, reaching out to place a hand on the young mamá's head. His bones barely sank into her hair, unnoticeable in the living world. "And her grandmother." The woman smiled, batting at the man's top hat affectionately.

"I wonder what offerings you'll get," Imelda remarked thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you told Miguel your favorite foods, did you?"

"I—what?" He stared blankly at her. "Offerings?" No one in that family had even heard of him before last year. Clearly Miguel had put his photo on the ofrenda, but that didn't mean the others would accept him so willingly. He had, of course, seen others coming back from the bridge with offerings from the living world, but he'd never thought of getting any himself.

"What?" she repeated wryly. "Do you really thing the family would let you on the ofrenda without a single offering? It would be a scandal."

"But—who's going to…."

"Miguel, for one?" She shook her head. "Try to relax, mi amor. We're here to have fun." His hand tightened around hers as he nodded. "We don't have to stay long, if you don't want to."

"I want… to see Miguel." That much was certain. Of course he was alright. Coco had told him so. But he still wanted to see for himself. His last hazy memory of the boy had been a frightened, panicked child with bones visible through translucent skin, begging to remain behind as he searched in vain for a way to save his great-great-grandfather.

She reached up, turning his jaw to press a kiss against the bone. Feather-light and filled with love, it made everything within him flutter in a too-familiar way. He leaned down and met her lips, kissing her without a care to the families passing them in their hurry to get home. I don't believe it, he thought again when she pulled away, just enough to brush the hair from his eyes. Each moment felt unreal, a dream that was waiting for the best moment to end.

And yet it wasn't a dream. The breeze ruffled their hair as easily as it did the living souls', her palm was solid against his own, her lips sweet and love sweeter. After all this time, he'd gotten everything he wanted. It was too good to be true, but it was the truth. And, with the help of his living family, it could go on being the truth for years, decades, centuries to come. He never had to wake up alone again. He never had to hear the harsh beep of denial from the facial scanner beepy-thingy. He never had to pine for a touch he wouldn't feel, love he wouldn't be granted. He could have it, and more. It was enough to make him cry, or scream out the world's longest grito, or… just kiss his wife. Which seemed the best of the three options, anyway.

"Come on, mi amor," he said, shaking the anxiety from his shoulders and standing straight, tall and proud and strengthened by the memories weaved into his core. "Let's not keep them waiting."

"No," his wife agreed, standing beside him as she did—always would do, from now on. They were a pair again, two, with their mate. Belonging. Needed.

"After all, if I know Miguel… we've got a performance to catch."

Afterword: I wanted to keep the focus on the two of them, which is why I didn't extend this any further. It's short but sweet, right?