The little girl flew up toward the ceiling and squealed with delight as she landed in a man's hands.

"Be careful with her."

"She's fine. She likes it, see?" He launched her into the air and she giggled as he caught her again.

"If you drop her, I swear I will kill you."

"No need to be so harsh, mama," the man said teasingly. He tossed her again and flashed a cocky grin. However, when she came back down, she slipped through his fingers. He managed to catch her before she hit the ground, hugging her awkwardly under her arms and bracing her against his chest. She wasn't upset. In fact, she was laughing, but the fun was over. Her father's heart was still pounding.

"That's it," Héctor declared as he marched across the room and snatched his daughter back. "No more throwing the baby." The little girl's face screwed up and she made babbling sounds which threatened to turn into cries. Héctor quickly remedied this by tickling her tummy and blowing a kiss into her cheek.

"Ugh, you sound like your wife," the other man said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me. You're the one who almost dropped my daughter."

"Did she die? No," the other man huffed as he crossed his arms. "Save your Papa Voice for when she's older and she gets in some real trouble."

Héctor let out a weary sigh. "I'm not going to fight about it. Just don't do it again."

"Fine," the other man conceded, still looking miffed. "We need to get back to practicing anyway. Did you finish that new song of yours?"

[-]

Héctor's vision faded back into the train station. He'd been getting flashes like this ever since he started talking to the young man, Miguel. They were usually of his little girl or the woman he presumed to be his wife. If that really is my wife, I hit the jackpot. Sometimes, other people came up. There were the twins, who were either his brothers or his wife's. There was another, older woman. From the flashes, he could tell he was a child when he knew her, so he guessed she was his mother. Then there was the other man who Héctor mentally named Hair Loop.

He was having some trouble placing Hair Loop. From what he could tell, Hair Loop was around a lot. Maybe another brother? Or just a really close friend? This new memory gave him a clue. Hair Loop mentioned practicing and strings. They must have played together, whoever he was.

The train station became crystal clear. He looked around. It was night again. He didn't like nights. He didn't sleep, so they always dragged. At least during the day, there were other people around. Even if he couldn't talk to them, he could watch them go about their lives. At night, there were a few security officers milling around and maybe a few people catching late night or early morning trains. Sometimes he'd get some drunk people who could be entertaining. Mostly, though, he was just bored.

The world went hazy again and he felt his heart jump. Another one.

[-]

He hummed as he watched his baby girl's eyes slide closed. He bit his lip as excitement stirred in his veins. Asleep! She's asleep! After holding her for a few more minutes to make sure she stayed asleep, he laid her down in her crib and tip toed out of the room.

"Is she really asleep?" his wife asked, a smile spreading across her face.

"She's really asleep. It took about eight lullabies and an hour of rocking, but she's finally down." He took his wife in his arms and pecked her on the lips. "I don't know whether to sleep or eat first."

"Eat," she said, gesturing to the table. "I just cooked."

"You're an angel. When did I get to heaven?" He gave her one more kiss and turned to the table. He'd only just sat down when the baby's small cries began again. He started to get up, when his wife put her arms around his shoulders and gently pushed him back down.

"I'll get her. You've had her for hours."

"You sure?"

"Sí, she's probably just hungry, too." She planted a kiss on his cheek and started toward the bedroom. "Besides," she threw a cheeky smirk over her shoulder, "I can't let you get any skinnier."

[-]

His vision faded back into the present, another moment of bliss passed. He'd grown to love these flashes. They were more than mere memory. They were his only means of leaving this place. For just that moment, he was no longer trapped. He could live the life of a man with friends and family, a life that was once his.

The train station became clear and he sighed as he glanced around at his strange prison. Grey, mostly, as far as the eye could see. He was thankful for the people with their funny modern clothes. Without them, he might have forgotten what colors were.

At least he was afforded one luxury. He floated over to the large glass windows. They let him see a lot of the sky, which he guessed was a perk. He'd have gone mad long ago if he was stuck somewhere with no view of the world. Still, he wished he could go outside and see a blanket of stars over him. God, how he missed the sky.

What color is the sky?

Ay mi amor, ay mi amor…

What was that? A song? A new song? He'd been playing the same one for years, maybe even decades. It was the only one he knew. But this one, this new song… It felt amazing. A new song! Was it one he knew in life? It must be. It was moving too fast in his mind to have just been made up on the spot.

He positioned his arms and felt the familiar weight of his phantom guitar in his hands. That was one good thing about being a ghost. His guitar was always right there when he needed it.

He played the song, his fingers dancing as he coaxed out the upbeat new tune. It was much different than the one he usually played. He wasn't feeling quiet as sad as he'd grown accustomed to. This was new. This was fun!

He was having fun.

[-]

Miguel was sure this was the best idea anyone's ever come up with. He rushed to the train station carrying his guitar on his back and grinning like an idiot. The ghost, Héctor, was a musician, right? So what better way to jog a musician's memory than with music?

He couldn't take complete credit. The night before, Rosa showed him some research online about how music can help dementia patients. Maybe it could help amnesia-plagued ghosts, too. The idea was perfect. Why hadn't he thought about it before?

He walked into the train station and heard a jaunty guitar playing. It sounded like… Un Poco Loco! One of his favorites! But where…

He turned in the direction of the music and found Héctor perched on a windowsill, his arms in guitar-holding position and his fingers dancing along where the frets would be. "Hola, Miguel," The ghost said brightly. His lips moved. No blood. Though, his demeanor was a stark contrast to the tears which still streamed down his face. "Listen to this. I remembered another song."

"I heard. That's great!"

"It's a happy song, too." He said this as if it was some novel thing. It both warmed Miguel's heart and stabbed him in the gut. How miserable must this ghost have been to forget what happy songs sounded like?

"I brought my guitar, today," Miguel said, and he twisted to reveal the instrument on his back. "I thought, if we played together, it might jog some of your memories."

Héctor's face melted as if he'd just been asked to be a godparent. "I would love to, Miguel."

"Hola, Ghostbuster!"

Miguel turned around to see Lareina waving as she approached. "Did you hear? The ghost has a new song. He's been playing it since I came in this morning."

"I've been playing since last night," Héctor corrected.

"He says he's been playing since last night," Miguel said, suspecting Lareina couldn't hear him.

"Is he here right now?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly.

"Sí, right behind me." Miguel poked a thumb over his shoulder at the ghost.

"I thought I saw him there," she said with a smile. "Whatever you're doing must be working. It's nice to hear him sound happier, you know."

Héctor beamed and excitedly waved his hand through Miguel's elbow, causing a cold tingling sensation. "Miguel, can you tell her I thank her for her concern and that she's really sweet for thinking of me?"

Miguel couldn't help but smile at his friend's enthusiasm. "He says he appreciates your concern and he thinks you're sweet."

"Gracias," Lareina beamed. "I didn't know a ghost could be so kind."

"Aw, amiga…" Héctor said, putting a hand to where his heart would have been. "I'd blush if I still could."

"He's very flattered," Miguel translated.

She gave a polite nod in response. "Is that your guitar, Ghostbuster?" she asked, pointing at the instrument on his back.

"Yeah, I was going to play with him, if that's okay."

"It's fine by me." She waved goodbye and began walking away. "I'll tell the other security guards to leave you be, too."

Once she was gone, Miguel sat down on a bench near the window and flipped his guitar around to the front. "Alright, what to play first?"

"Can I keep playing my new song?" he asked without pausing his notes. "At least for a little while? It just makes me feel so good."

Miguel smiled, got his guitar in position, and started playing along. He knew this song by heart. Héctor was right. It did feel good to play. It made him feel excited and alive. His fingers danced up and down the fret board as the tempo picked up. From the corner of his eye, he could see Héctor plucking at the air, seemingly coaxing the tune out of nothing. Even without a visible guitar, Miguel could tell the ghost's own talent from his fancy finger work and the ease with which he moved his hands.

"Ah, nice work, amigo." Héctor beamed like a proud papa. "You're picking it up quick."

"I already know this song." Miguel beamed back and sang, "You make me un poco loco, un pocitititito loco…"

"You know the words, too?"

"Yeah, it's Un Poco Loco, one of my favorite songs."

"One of your favorite songs?" The ghost gave him a confused look. "So, other people know this song?"

"Yeah, it's by a very famous musician, possibly the most famous in Mexican history. He was from your time, so you must have heard his songs."

Wait, that doesn't work. Héctor died in 1921 and Ernesto's first album didn't come out until 1923. Miguel stopped playing as his thoughts took over. It didn't make sense. He had to have heard the song somewhere, but he'd been trapped for a hundred years and the train station didn't have music playing. So, how would he have heard?

"Something wrong, Miguel?" Héctor asked, pausing his playing as well.

"Oh, no. It's just this guy I'm thinking of," Miguel answered. "He didn't get famous until after you died. Unless… Wait, you said you were a traveling musician, right?"

"I think so. I know I traveled here to play."

"He started out that way too. Maybe you met him on the touring circuit." Miguel reached into his pocket and took out his phone. "Here, let me pull up a picture of him."

After a quick google image search, Miguel selected a picture of Ernesto De la Cruz from his first album cover. He flipped the phone to show Héctor who leaned in for a closer look. His eyes glowed white and he whispered, "Ernesto De la Cruz."

Miguel's stomach did a flip and a grin stretched across his face. "You know him?"

The glow did not fade from the ghost's eyes. "My…old…friend…"

Miguel's heart leapt. This was amazing. He was talking to someone who actually knew the Ernesto De la Cruz in real life! More than that, they were friends! Sure, droves of people claimed to know Ernesto De la Cruz before he was famous, but that was true of any celebrity. A lot of them turned out to be fake but this? What reason would the ghost have to lie? "You really did know him?"

The glowing in his eyes faded. "We…played…together…" he hummed as he returned from his daze.

"You played music with Ernesto De la Cruz?" Miguel's eyes went wide as saucers. This was huge! An old friend of Ernesto De la Cruz, a musician friend, was sitting (floating?) right here in front of him. All this time, he'd been talking to someone who knew his hero. In a way, it made sense. A legendary musician should have legendary friends. "Did you learn together? Or meet up a lot on tour?"

"I'd been getting flashes of memory even when you're not around. He's been in a few. I saw him playing with my daughter and I saw us performing on stage together. I've seen him a lot in strange hotel rooms. I think we toured together."

Wait, that wasn't right. Miguel read Ernesto De la Cruz's official biography dozens of times and there was never any mention of a music partner. It talked about him touring in the early 1920s before his big break, but as a solo act. "Are you sure?" Maybe the ghost was mistaken. He was only getting flashes, after all. Maybe they played together a few times for fun, but they couldn't have been a double act. "What makes you think that?"

"He was there the night I died."

"Wait, what?"

"That's what I just remembered. We had a fight. He wanted to keep touring much longer than we meant to. I wanted to go home. He said he couldn't do it without my songs, but I was determined to go back to my family. He seemed to understand this and even toasted our friendship. But then," he tucked a hand across his stomach, "on the walk to the train station, I started to feel wrong. I got a sharp pain in my stomach. I think that's… how I…"

"Wait, did you say your songs?" Miguel asked. He knew he shouldn't fixate on that. The ghost may have just remembered his own death, after all, but that was the part that stuck out to him. If Héctor really did play with De la Cruz, and De la Cruz was begging for his songs… No, it was impossible.

"Yes, my songs," Héctor confirmed. "I had a book I wrote them in. It is what the fight was about. I took my songs with me when I left."

"But, that can't be right. De la Cruz wrote all of his songs."

"Maybe, but not these ones," Héctor said, sounding a bit annoyed, "not the ones we played together."

"Well, they must have been different songs, not the ones he used when he got famous." But, then how does he know Un Poco Loco? "Do you remember any of the songs you wrote?"

"Just this one." Héctor put his hands around his invisible guitar and played his slow, soft version of Remember Me.

Impossible. That was Ernesto De la Cruz's most popular song. "You're sure you wrote this song?"

"Absolutely. I feel it in my heart. I wrote it for someone very… special…" The ghost's eyes glowed again as he stared off into the distance. Then, he began to sing. "Remember me, though I have to say goodbye… Remember me, don't let it make you cry…" His voice took on an ethereal, breathy quality as he continued through the rest of the song.

Miguel could only watch in amazement as Héctor played, lost in a world of memory. He looked oddly serene, even a little happy. A nagging feeling in Miguel's stomach sent him off kilter. Héctor was wrong. This song may be sentimental, he may even have played it with De la Cruz, but he did not write it.

Héctor finished playing and the glow faded from his eyes. "My daughter," he said with a smile, "I wrote it for my daughter."

"Did you just see yourself writing it?"

"No," Héctor said, his dreamy look still in his eyes. "I saw myself playing it for her."

"Well, then, that's not really proof, is it?" Miguel blurted out. The contented look of Héctor's face disappeared and he immediately regretted his choice of words.

"What?"

"I mean, you may have played it for her and I'm sure it was lovely, but it doesn't prove you wrote it for her."

"I did, Miguel," Héctor said, an edge to his tone. "I'm sure of it."

"But how do you know?"

"I just…" Héctor's face faltered. "I just know."

"But that doesn't prove anything," Miguel said, setting aside his guitar. "You can't even remember most of your life. I mean, how do you know you're not interpreting your memories wrong?"

The ghost's eyes fell into a glare. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because it doesn't make sense," Miguel argued. "Everyone knows Ernesto De la Cruz wrote his own songs and Remember Me is his most popular song. You can't both have written it."

"We didn't both write it. I wrote it." The ghost insisted, the edge in his voice sharpening. "And I may not remember everything, but I know what he said to me that night. He said he couldn't do it without my songs, my songs. Not ours, not his, mine."

"How can you know? You can't prove that you wrote them except for your unreliable memories. Meanwhile, Ernesto De la Cruz's songbook is on display in a museum right now."

Miguel felt a small twinge of guilt bringing up the songbook. That book was a point of contention among music historians. It's been noted that the handwriting in the book doesn't match other samples of De la Cruz's handwriting at the time. Some think this points to the book being a fake while others think it gives credence to the claims past songwriters made of plagiarism. Miguel always dismissed the latter idea. But maybe…

No, no a genius artist like De la Cruz couldn't be a thief.

"Was the songbook red?"

Miguel paused. How did he…. No, no, lucky guess.

"I know I wrote them Miguel," Héctor continued. He closed his eyes and wracked his brain. "I wrote them… for my family, to support them with my music."

"But your family didn't even-" Miguel stopped and slapped his hands over his mouth. He felt the full weight of his mistake as Héctor's face crumbled.

"Didn't even what?" Héctor asked, his voice growing panicked. "Miguel, what do you know?"

Miguel dropped his eyes to the floor. He couldn't finish that sentence. It'd do no good and he couldn't smash the hope his friend had been building. He didn't have to say anything, however. Héctor only had to study Miguel's face and he knew.

"My family never came for me, did they?" The words came out in something below a whisper. "But if they didn't come, did no one tell them I died?" He settled on the bench beside Miguel. His expression twisted sorrow and bitterness. "Ernesto watched me die. He said he'd move heaven and earth for me, but he couldn't even be bothered to…"

Miguel looked up. "Heaven and Earth?"

Héctor nodded. "Sí, in our toast, he said 'I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo.' Guess they were just empty words."

This was sounding too familiar. Miguel spent many a night tucked up in the crawl space watching Ernesto De la Cruz movies after the rest of his family had gone to bed. He knew them all by heart and knew that toast exactly, except the toast was followed by the discovery of poison tequila. Poison tears…he's crying tequila…

No, no that was insane, just a crazy conspiracy theory. Ernesto De la Cruz wasn't just famous for being a musician and actor. He was also known as one of the friendliest and most charismatic celebrities out there. People loved him. Apart from the occasional hater, few people were known to have said a bad word about him. Then there were a few nobody songwriters who tried to get attention by claiming he…stole…their…songs… No, those other guys were just trying to bite off some of his fame. Someone with as stellar a reputation as De la Cruz couldn't be a murderer, right?

Héctor died that same night…

No, it was all just a coincidence…an oddly specific coincidence.

A cold tingling sensation brought him out of his throughts. He looked up to see Héctor leaning over him, attempting to grasp his shoulders. "Miguel, if you know something about my family, please tell me."

"I…" He bit his tongue, punishing any thought of revealing the truth. "No, I don't."

"I want to know," the ghost begged. "Please, I don't want to stay in the dark anymore. Please tell-"

Héctor froze. He stared straight ahead, his eyes emitting a dull glow. It wasn't the bright flash of light which signified a recovered memory. This light was cold and hazy, like sunlight straining through a fog. Miguel felt his insides turning to ice as he stared into these eyes. His every mistake flashed before his eyes: lying to his family, lying to Héctor, the fight after graduation, what he said to abuelita… The Miguel from his vision was a selfish, uncaring brat. Who did he think he was disregarding his family's values? Yelling at his parents? Deliberately hurting Abuelita with his awful, awful words? This Miguel didn't deserve his scholarship or his spot at the Conservatorio. He didn't deserve anything. He was worthless.

The ghost straightened up and turned his head. The cold feeling inside Miguel began to fade as the ghost drew away. In a blink, the ghost disappeared. Miguel looked for him and saw him across the station, floating in front of a man in a brown jacket, talking on a cell phone. The man froze at the sight of the ghost and looked off in a daze as if entranced. The ghost's hands curled around something invisible and passed it to the man who held it up to his mouth. Poison. Poison tequila.

The man then dropped to the floor and cracked his head on the tiles. The people round him went into an uproar. Security ran over. There were gasps, calls for a doctor, and shouts to call an ambulance. Miguel knew it was all useless. The man was dead.

Miguel lost sight of the ghost in the chaos. He disappeared when the man dropped. Will he come back to me? Miguel wondered. He wasn't about to stick around to find out. He slung his guitar on his back and ran out of the building.

[-]

When he arrived back at his grandparent's place, no one was home. He'd gotten a text earlier from Rosa about going out to lunch. It didn't matter right now. There was only one person he needed to talk to right now and she was back in Santa Cecelia.

He went straight to his room, shut the door, and called home. His heart thumped with each ring. Please pick up, he begged, praying for it to be abuelita on the other end. He'd have a better chance of speaking to her if she picked up.

After about four rings, someone answered. "Hola?" His Pap said.

Miguel let out a ragged breath. "Hola Papá."

"Miguel? Is something wrong? You sound upset."

"No, it's just… is abuelita there?"

"She is but she's," his father hesitated and Miguel's heart jumped into his throat. "She's tired today," Enrique finished. "I'm not sure she'll be up for talking right now."

She hates me. "Can you ask? Please?"

"I'll see. Hold on." There was an agonizingly long pause on the other end. He could hear a short, whispered argument. "I'm sorry, Miguel," his father said when he came back on the line. "She's just…like I said she's tired."

Miguel hadn't realized he was about to cry until that moment. The tears spilled over and he reached up to wipe them away. What did you expect after what you said?

"What's wrong, m'ijo?" Enrique asked, apparently hearing Miguel's sniffles through the phone. "Listen, you need to be patient with her. She needs time to cool off and… huh?" Miguel heard his father try to cup his hand over the receiver. "One minute, Coco," he whispered away from the phone. "I'm on the phone… yes it's Miguel… I don't think he's in the mood to talk right now. Maybe later."

"Coco's there?" Miguel asked. He thought of Héctor's daughter, the one who never got to know what happened to her papa, and his heart twisted.

"Yes, do you want to talk to her?"

"Sí, sí, please." He was suddenly filled with a need to talk to his sister. At least she'll never have to wonder. "Hand her the phone."

After some audible shuffling, a sweet, lively voice came through the phone. "Miguel?"

"Hola Coco." His tears came harder and he tried breathing deep to calm them.

"Are you sad?" she asked innocently.

"Yeah," he answered through a ragged breath, "I'm a little sad."

"Why?"

Because I ruined everything. "I'm just not having a very good day."

"Oh..." There was a pause and he heard her repeatedly open and close a drawer as she thought. "I saw a pretty bird today and it made me happy. Would it help if I drew if for you?"

He laughed through his tears. "You know what, Coco? I think it would."

"I'll show it to you when you get back."

"Can't wait." His insides began to warm and a smile returned to his face. At least I've got my sister. "So, tell me about the bird."