The air exploded in a swirl of orange marigold petals, and Miguel was gone. He was safe. Breathing a sigh of relief, Héctor slowly rolled his head over and saw the sun cresting over the horizon, a deep red against a dark sky.

Dia de los Muertos was over.

He was out of time, but it was all right. Even if he never saw Coco again, at least Miguel could pass on his message. He would tell Coco that he loved her, that he missed her more than life. That would be enough.

There was another tremor, and for a horrible moment he thought it was his last as his bones seized like they might shatter from the inside. But Imelda was there, holding him tight until the shaking stopped, and then kept holding him.

At least… at least he wasn't alone.

That thought was a comfort as he lay there, the marigold still clutched in his hand, although that was only because Imelda held it for him. Imelda… he wished he had been there for her sooner.

"I… I'm sorry..." he breathed out. "I'm sorry, Imelda."

His eyes couldn't focus, could barely stay open. He wished he had more time, just to be with her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, wanted to see her smile, see her laugh. He closed his eyes, let his body sink down.

"I never should have left," he whispered, grimacing. It was my fault, he thought. Perhaps this was what he deserved.

He was so… so tired.

Yet, he didn't mind it so much anymore. The golden tremors had stopped, and he felt at peace. There was the feeling of everything fading, of an overwhelming, stifling darkness.

This wasn't so bad…

"Héctor!" Imelda yelled, jolting him from the dark fog. He blinked, and was barely able to see her against the glare of the sun, even though everything seemed so dark.

"Remember when Coco was born?" she said, her voice low and strained. "Remember when you first held her in your arms?"

Yes… he remembered, but struggled to make the words come out. "I remember. She… she was incredible."

Coco… his little Socorro. He had stayed with Imelda all through her birth, holding her hand as she fought through the pain. But then their child had been born, a little girl, and the midwife had placed her in his arms. A daughter… crying and filthy, but so small, so fragile and so beautiful that his heart broke. As he placed her in Imelda's arms, he thought she was the most precious thing in all the world. His daughter, his family…

He curled up as his bones threatened to abandon him. His fingers clung to Imelda, who was there and real, and he felt suddenly like a child, lost and alone. The thought was brutally disorienting… he wasn't a child, he was old. Too old, too young. His own thoughts were unraveling like thread between his fingers. Like sand. Like dust.

"Just hold on, stay with me." Her voice was growing softer, like she was fading away. "Just stay a little longer."

Except no, he was the one fading. He was the one leaving.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, perhaps too quiet to hear. He could no longer feel his body. It was like the moment just before waking, or just before drifting to sleep. A sense of nothingness.

No eyes to open, no mouth to speak.

He was nothing. No name. No breath, everything perfectly still. Quiet.

It was so… peaceful. This was ok.

Don't leave me…

The words sent a fierce shiver all through him, when he thought all feeling had left. A voice… he knew that voice.

Imelda.

No… he couldn't leave her. Not again.

He struggled against the surrounding fog and the heavy, heavy weariness. It was like being buried in sand, an impossible weight. It was so heavy, pulling him down… never in life or death had he ever felt so exhausted.

Don't leave me…

He had a wife, a daughter… he clutched at that thought before it slipped away. His daughter, Coco. He needed to tell her… he loved her. Faintly he became aware of something anchoring him, keeping him there. There was a pressure, something holding him, and from that he sensed he still had a body.

Then came a voice, more clearly than before.

"Don't leave…"

Once again there was an otherness besides his own being. The weight was lifting. Slowly, incredibly…

"Please…" Imelda whispered.

Imelda, mi amor…

He opened his eyes, blinking against the light. High, high overhead he saw sky, pale blue with streaks of pink. It was past sunrise. The softness at the edges of his existence had left.

Perhaps he made a sound, or something had changed, because Imelda carefully pulled away from him and looked into his face.

He tried to speak but couldn't, could barely move. Slowly, painfully he sat up, or at least tried to. He wasn't sure how much was him and how much was Imelda's arm at his back, supporting him. With a surprising amount of effort, he brought a shaking hand to his chest and felt it clack against his ribcage, startlingly vivid. He was still there.

"She remembered," Imelda whispered.

Coco… remembered him. He looked to Imelda and realized she was holding his hand. It had been her voice that had pulled him back. It had been her telling him not to leave.

He smiled, overcome with thoughts and feelings that were far beyond his comprehension. Weariness settled in his bones, but this time it was familiar, safe. He would be all right.

"I'm…" he breathed, "I'm here."

Finally, finally… he had kept his promise.

He didn't leave his family.

Author's Note:

This story had begun as just a short post-movie scene, but these characters have taken my heart and mind and this is now a full story exploring not just our favorite couple, but also how the rest of the Rivera family responds to Héctor joining their lives.

One thing I discovered while writing this were some interesting… I suppose parallels. Complementary opposites, perhaps. Night and day, dusk and dawn, life and death… that sort of thing.

There's one tiny part of a scene here that really sticks with me, and it's when he's dying and he suddenly feels like a child. You see, my mom's a nurse and she's remarked that when people get old, the cycle kinda starts over again and they become childlike. She would mention this when we went to dinner with my grandparents, and my grandma would be eating her food with her hands, and it's always kinda lingered with me, this parallel between old and young, birth and dying.