Coco and Julio were married in autumn. Coco wore a long, flowing dress of lace overlaying cotton, embroidered with delicate flowers, made for her by her uncles. She didn't carry a bouquet of flowers, instead she'd fashioned a bunch of fallen leaves into floral shapes, pinching them together with twine and forming vivid orange, red and yellow blossoms. Julio wore a white suit that flattered his dark skin and already greying moustache.

It was a wedding with no music, no dancing, no singing. Only the murmur of conversation and the whisper of the wind.

And though, or perhaps because, it was the polar opposite to her own wedding, Imelda was so happy to see it. To see the light in their eyes when they looked at each other. To see each small cherished touch. It warmed her heart and almost brought her to tears.

Felipe put a hand on her shoulder and Óscar stood beside her. Together they exclaimed their pride, their joy at seeing Coco so happy, both carefully avoiding reminiscing about her wedding. Avoiding the topic with practiced skill. She saw this, recognised it, appreciated the effort.

But of course, Héctor was not far from her mind. She remembered her wedding and their dance in the rain. His voice and his touch and his kiss. She remembered wishing her mama could have been there. Feeling Coco move for the first time and the spike of joy she'd felt. The memory was bitter sweet.

As the sun began to set and a cold breeze picked up, Coco pulled her aside and hugged her tight, thanking her for everything. Imelda, still grappling with the emotional turmoil inside her, returned the hug, embracing her daughter. And, for the first time in a long time, she mentioned Héctor aloud. Apologised to Coco that her father wasn't here, that he missed the wedding.

Coco smiled and kissed Imelda's cheek. Cradled her face in both hands, wiping away a tear with the ball of her thumb. Unaware just how like Héctor she looked in that moment.

"I love you, Mama. And today was perfect. Even without him."


Héctor tried to get in touch with Ernesto, tried desperately to talk to his oldest friend, to the closest thing he had to family in the Land of the Dead. But it was impossible.

Soon after being welcomed to the Land of the Dead, Ernesto was recognised as a celebrity. Not left to wander the Arts District hoping desperately for some guidance, he was, instead, ushered to the highest level of society. His music paved the way to a luxury penthouse, then to his own personal tower. It crisscrossed into the skyline, made of white marble and lit by wandering spotlights.

It was beautiful. And impenetrable.

Héctor abandoned the station, stopped lingering outside and hoping to see someone he knew. Abandoned the children who had sometimes come back to see him play. Now he loitered outside the tower, watching for any sign of Ernesto, hoping that one day his friend would come down. Would talk to him. He had tried to get up there, tried to convince the security guards that it was okay, he knew Ernesto, they went way back. Back to the Land of the Living even. Couldn't they please just let him in?

No. They could not.

They took one look at his torn, faded clothing, crossed their arms and raised eyebrow ridges and turned him away. Time after time. There was no convincing them.

And Ernesto was avoiding him. Had to be. He'd avoid coming out by himself. He'd be in a group of people, and never seemed to hear Héctor's voice in the crowd. Begging for a moment of his time. Just to talk. Just to help him understand.

Because he needed to understand. He had spent time now, listening and asking around. It was clear that Ernesto had only played the songs that had been in the leather-bound notebook when Héctor died. In all the extra time that Ernesto had had in the Land of the Living, another lifetime of Héctor's over again, he had apparently never written his own songs. Never put his own words to paper.

That hurt. Certainly. It gouged at his chest and left rifts of sharp pain. But it was nothing compared to the idea of being left behind. Of being unmourned. He just couldn't understand it.

And he wasn't going to get the chance any time soon.


It took time for Coco to fall pregnant. They didn't actively try, but they weren't taking any precautions either. It just wasn't happening. Eventually, over two years after the wedding, her period didn't show up. She didn't have any nausea or vomiting. She could still dance and work and eat all her favourite foods. But still, her period was late.

Imelda, seeing her in the workshop one day, sat across the table and smiled a knowing smile.

"Anything to tell me, m'ija?"

Coco jolted, stabbed the wicked curved needle through the leather and into her finger. She yelped and threw the boot and needle away from her reflexively. Stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked, tasting the metallic tang of blood, looking guiltily at her mother.

"Hmm? What? Sorry?"

Imelda raised an eyebrow, reached over and pulled Coco's hand free. Wrapped a clean piece of cotton around her fingertip and applied gentle pressure.

"I asked if you had any news," she said. Simply. As though she already knew everything. Though that was impossible. Coco's period was only two weeks late. It wasn't sure. Not yet.

But that wasn't quite right. Only two weeks late, feeling absolutely normal. But she knew. There was life flickering deep inside her. The tiniest flutter of cells dividing and multiplying, and becoming something new and utterly different.

And by the look on Imelda's face she knew it too.

"Maybe?"

"Have you talked to Julio yet?" Imelda pulled the cotton off Coco's finger, examined it closely, made sure it wasn't still oozing.

"Not yet." Coco straightened her spine and lifted her chin. "I wasn't sure."

Imelda's smile softened. The harsh lines carved too soon at the corners of her mouth and in her forehead evened out, became delicate. In a flash Coco could see the woman her mother should have been. If her life had been easier. If fate had been kinder.

"Ay, m'ija, you are glowing. I can see it, I'm sure he can too." Imelda leaned forward, wrapped Coco in a hug that was gentle and loving. Proud and hopeful. It filled Coco's heart with warmth.

"Okay, Mama, I'll tell him tonight." A brief pause, her breath halting ever so slightly in her throat. "Mama…when you told Papa that you were pregnant…how did he react?"

Imelda's arms stiffened. Her spine locked in place with an almost audible click. Coco felt a burst of regret and guilt. She hadn't meant to upset Imelda. She just wanted to know this one thing. This one little bit of their history. Of her father.

Imelda pulled away and looked down, clearly grappling with her own thoughts. Eventually she said in a clipped tone, "He was…happy. Very happy." Another long pause. Coco sat, her eyes wide, not wanting to break the silence. It was the first positive thing she could remember hearing about her father. It propped up the old, faded memories in the back of her mind. The memories of warmth and love and dancing brown eyes so full of happiness that she'd felt like the most important person in the world. Of the words to her old lullaby. The one she hadn't sung for over a decade. Eventually a bittersweet little smile pulled on Imelda's lips. Her eyebrows slanted and her shoulders slumped just the slightest bit. When she spoke next the shortness had left her tone. Now her voice was soft, wistful, full of memory and longing. "He was very excited to be a father."

Silence stretched between them. Then Imelda shook her head. Snapped her shoulders back. Dashed away the glimmer of a tear at the corner of one eye. Turned and beamed at her daughter. No sign of that brief softness that had overcome her. Now it was all joy and pride and the backbone of steel.

"Mama, I…"

"Hush, m'ija. You go find Julio and tell him now. He will be so happy to hear, I know it."

A brief flash of that same wistful longing, swimming in Imelda's eyes, making them darken to a deep, lustrous brown. Coco, unable to bear seeing the emotion there, nodded dumbly. Turned away from her mother. Almost fled from the table, heading off to find Julio.


Héctor lost his studio. He could no longer afford the upkeep. That year, for the first time, he approached the big bridge, the one near the station, that linked a bustling market to the Arts District. Chalked on the dark stones were crude skeletons, floating through the air, suspended on wings of marigold petals. It hurt his heart to look at them. These murals of hopelessness and longing.

He averted his eyes and walked under the bridge. It was a ramshackle town: crudely constructed bungalows squatting beside a crooked winding pathway, all on rickety stilts that descended into dark, shallow water. Alebrijes, brightly coloured frogs oversized rabbit ears and fish with broken wings flitted around in the shallows.

He navigated the bridge with uncertain steps. Vaguely aware of suspicious eyes watching from each bungalow he passed.

"Hello?"

His voice bounced back from cheap wood and hard stone. A frog alebrije with a crooked scorpion tail let out a frightened croak and hopped into the water. There was no other movement. Héctor picked at the fraying threads of his torn jacket and looked nervously around.

"I'm looking for Chicharrón? He said I could find him here?"

There was another long silence. An uncomfortably long silence. He unpicked a few more threads and let out a low sigh, turned to leave, hopelessness sinking an icy chill through his bones.

Then a low creak, catching his attention. He twisted, so sharply that the bridge beneath him rocked and almost sent him off balance.

"Wait, amigo. Don't go." Cheech stepped towards him, looking more faded than last time they'd met. A cowboy hat was perched on his skull. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, and wheezed for a moment. "Apologies, Héctor, I was asleep. Tía Julia woke me." Another faded skeleton, a woman with dark hair tied in a severe bun, eyed him from the doorway.

"Tía…?"

Cheech grinned, stepped forward and grabbed Héctor's hand, pulled him towards the bungalow. Héctor resisted for a moment, but followed when he felt Chicharrón's wrist start to stretch.

"Familia! This is Héctor, he's like us."

"He looks too fresh to be like us." Another faded woman. The designs on her skull were empty indentations with no colour to them at all. Her bones rattled and shifted as she spoke. Several vertebrae were crushed into wedge shapes and one of her upper arms was roughly stuck together with tight fraying bandages.

"Ay, Tía, we were all fresh once." Cheech dropped an eyelid in a wink. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but didn't argue further. "Come, amigo, we'll find a place for you."

Héctor nodded dumbly and allowed Cheech to guide him deeper into Shantytown. To his new home. Among his new family.