Enrique was always looking for new ideas. Everyone else had their own fantastic lines of shoes, their own styles. The unique little flairs that were part of the Rivera Shoes charm. The actual crafting shoes was not Enrique's problem: the issue was that he was just using the same styles that people had taught him. There was nothing that people could point to and say that he had made that shoe.
He'd gone to spend a week in Mexico City. A holiday, he'd said, a bit of a break. A research trip, he had thought. There were some fine shoe shops in Mexico City, and he planned to look through all of them. Get some inspiration.
There were a lot of interesting styles that he had seen on this trip. He'd taken sketches and scribbled notes in a little red leather notebook, stroking his moustache and narrowing his eyes as he wandered through every shoe store he could find.
One day, close to the end of his week, he'd been kneeling at the back of one of the larger stores, sorting through the lowest rack. The most interesting shoes were usually tucked out of view, after all.
"Can I help you?"
He jolted out of his concentration, twisting around on his heels to look up at the speaker. A woman, around his age, with big sparkling eyes and an intrigued tilt to her eyebrows. He grinned awkwardly and shook his head.
"No, no, señorita, apologies. I was just looking to see if there was anything…interesting…" He realised he was kneeling in front of a rack of heels and flushed. "For my…uh…"
She giggled, a musical sound that made his heart flutter. "For the Riveras, right?"
Shock overcame the rush of attraction and he gaped at her. "The Riveras?"
"Yeah." She pointed to his shoes, tracing the stylised 'R' with her fingertip in mid-air. "Those are Rivera boots, right?"
"How did you know that?" Slightly dazed.
"They make the best shoes," she said, giggling that musical giggle again. "Everyone in my dance class wears them. They never wear out!"
He got to his feet, his notebook sitting forgotten on the floor, and held out one hand. "Enrique Rivera," he said. Smiling. "Pleased to meet you."
"Luisa," she replied, her grip firm as she shook his hand. "The pleasure is all mine."
And boom, there it was, that electric bolt Berto had told him about. Rattling him to his core and leaving a dopey smile on his face.
Héctor found it very difficult to adjust to life without music. It was easy enough not to play: without access to an instrument he wasn't subject to temptation. Harder was trying to avoid it. It had been part of his life for so long, the loss of it left an empty hollow in his spirit. It hurt almost as much as the final pang of grief he had felt for Imelda.
He still loved her. Of course he did. He had laboured under the idea that she still loved him too, that under the layers of anger there was still a core of caring. He did not think that anymore. The abandonment of his death when Coco had been so young was clearly something she couldn't recover from. Héctor wasn't interested in pushing her anymore.
Instead, he refocused his attention completely on the bridge. On Día de Muertos. On getting across. Coco was in her seventies now; she would not live forever. And if she was the last person who remembered him, then he had to see her in the Land of the Living. Because when she died, he would too.
This year, he pulled himself apart again and tried to reverse-pickpocket bones into people's bags or the baskets they took to bring back their offerings. Sadly, on sneaking his unbroken tibia into an oversized pocket, he was spotted. He was not, after all, a thief, and subtlety was not one of his strong suits.
Caught by the arm and unable to run away on his cracked remaining leg, he grinned in what he hoped was a charming and placating way.
"Oops, my mistake," he said, keeping his tone light and innocent. Hoping he could play this off as some sort of misunderstanding.
The guard, a fresh skeleton Héctor hadn't seen before, didn't buy it. As he was dragged out he spotted Sofia, walking towards the checkpoint in her uniform, and averted his eyes, hoping she didn't see him. In previous years, she had been so kind to him, and he didn't want her to see him like this.
For the first time in decades, he spent the night locked up in the gaol.
Julio had been losing a lot of weight over the past year. This was not necessarily a bad thing; he had grown quite portly in his old age, but he hadn't been trying to either. He just wasn't hungry, it seemed. Elena would put out huge family meals, the platters overloaded with delicious smelling food, but he would just look at the options. Pick at the few little morsels Elena would put on his plate. Shrug when she asked if he wanted more.
"I'm not hungry, m'ija," he said with a smile. "I don't need anymore."
Losing weight was one thing. The niggling pain in his stomach was something else entirely. He tried to keep it quiet, but Gloria noticed the pallor in his cheeks and the way his hand kept bracing on his upper stomach whenever he got up, and had called the doctor.
Doctor Juan Ramirez was mostly retired now, only doing home visits when he felt like it. Luckily, Doctor Isabella Ramirez, his daughter, had taken over. The same day that Gloria called, she popped in, doing a home visit of her own to see him. They sat together in the living room, Julio reclining and Isabella sipping coffee as she listened. Coco perched herself beside the window, sketching patterns in a notebook and pretending not to listen.
The kind, warm smile on her round face faded as he talked, then was replaced by a worried frown.
"Is it okay if I feel your stomach, Julio?" she asked. He nodded and pulled his shirt up, lifting his head to watch as she pressed warm hands into his now flat abdomen. "Head down," she said and he complied. She felt every bit of his abdomen, returning again and again to the inverted V beneath his ribs. There was no pain, he noted with some relief, but clearly something had caught her attention. When she sat back down, her face was grim and he felt the first spike of worry needle his heart. "There's something in your stomach," she said gently. "Coupled with your symptoms, I would recommend some further testing." At those words, Coco moved closer, one hand resting on her husband's shoulder.
"Is it cancer?" he asked, his voice trembling. Isabella took his hand, squeezed it, maintained eye contact.
"Sadly, it's very likely," she said. Even though the words were frightening, he was glad she answered him honestly. "But I swear, Julio." Her eyes shifted and met Coco's, briefly, before returning to Julio's. "No matter what the results are, I'll be here to help."
Imelda tapped her foot and crossed her arms, eyes narrowed as she craned her neck to see over the people in front of her. The line was stretching out of the checkpoint, not seeming to move at all, extending all the way back to the doors of the station. When Óscar touched her shoulder she looked at him, irritated.
"No need to be annoyed, hermana, the night is young. We'll have plenty of time in the Land of the Living."
"I suppose," she said, rather grudgingly. "I just don't understand what's taking so long."
He shrugged and smiled. Behind him, Felipe was cracking jokes and nudging Victoria, trying to get her to smile, to no avail. Rosita was giggling at each punchline, as she always did. They clearly didn't mind that the line was taking its time this year. Imelda wasn't sure why she was so on edge.
Taking a deep breath and trying to settle the anxiety curling inside her, she looked ahead. There was a flutter of movement ahead, catching her eye, and she squinted as she tried to make it out.
It was Héctor. Recognisable even from this distance, he was scurrying back and forth on the checkpoint's roof in an apparent panic. In his hands was a long, uneven stick, the end held in front of him bouncing and swaying as he moved. It was like a pole vault, she realised, at the same moment he lunged forward, spiked the stick towards the ground and vanished from sight.
Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. A quick glance at her family confirmed they had not seen anything out of the ordinary.
She took a deep calming breath. Turned to her family. Almost said something, the words threatening behind her teeth, then swallowed them back. They didn't need to know. Óscar and Felipe obviously didn't recognise Héctor, or if they did they'd never said anything to her in the years he'd lurked outside the workshop. Rosita and Victoria had never known him. There was no need to discuss it now.
When the guards dragged him down the line towards the station, his head low and his body limp in their grip, she tightened her lips and looked resolutely away. Héctor wasn't her responsibility anymore. And when the line started to move as normal, she didn't look back towards him and didn't even glance at the cracked, rickety pole vault lying abandoned just outside the checkpoint.