Mamá Coco was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease a few months after Miguel's first birthday. Dr Isabella Ramirez had been very thorough, getting a neurologist opinion and checking for every other possible cause, so there was no uncertainty. Elena, who had been in denial about her mother's memory loss, was shaken to her core. Overnight, she became hugely protective, staying within eyeshot of her mother at all times. Eventually Coco, annoyed with her daughter's constant hovering, sat her down.

"I'm not totally feeble yet, m'ija," she said. "My memory isn't great, but I'm not an invalid."

"I'm sorry, Mamá." Elena patted her hand. "I just want to make sure you're safe."

Coco put her own hand on top of Elena's, keeping her gaze steady. "You know I love you, m'ija. Just give me some space, okay? I promise I won't do anything dangerous. I'll steer clear of the kitchen and the workshop. I won't watch the children alone. Please."

"Okay." They hugged, Elena feeling the sting of tears as she breathed in the familiar smell of her mother's hair. She looked up at the ceiling and mouthed the words 'For now'.

After that, Coco was able to roam the hacienda freely again, keeping her word and avoiding the kitchen and workroom. She would sit outside some days, listening to the whir of machinery and the laughter from inside. Keeping her hands busy with knitting and the occasional sketches finished with increasingly shaky lines. Now Elena ran the workshop, and she did with the same firm hand and watchful eye as Coco had, as Imelda had.

She still found time late at night, when she was awake and she was sure everyone else was asleep, to creep into Miguel's room. He was still just a little baby, but he seemed to appreciate the few bars she would sing him. He would be awake, invariably, watching the doorway with those eyes that reminded her so much of Papá. He would coo when she entered, a musical little babble. She would sit beside the cot, play with his hands or his feet —she was mindful of her promise to Elena and never tried to take him out of the crib—and sing him her lullaby. Usually more than once. Sometimes he would babble along, almost matching her notes, and when he did, her heart was so full she thought it would burst. It was like having a little slice of her father back with her.

On Día de Muertos, the dead Riveras crossed the bridge together. They crowded in the ofrenda room and listened to the stories told about them all. Victoria disappeared for about an hour, going to visit María on her second ofrenda. When she came back she had a notebook beneath her arm, a beautiful pen tucked between its pages.

Miguel, a few years old now, kept swinging his head around towards them, as though he could see them out of the corner of his eye. Once he was looking directly at them, however, his eyes searched the dark corners of the room. Rosita bent and pinched at his cheeks, cooing at him, while Imelda watched Elena watch Coco. There was an uneasiness to that look, and Imelda felt a stir of concern. Julio trotted up to her a moment later, his forehead creased and his eyes worried as he looked at his wife.

"Enrique was just talking to Luisa," he said. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and curled bony fingers around Coco's hand. "He says Coco's memory is…fading."

"Fading?" Imelda put a hand to her chest. There had never been any memory loss in the family. Though, she supposed, there was always a first. "Oh, m'ija." She bent by Coco, putting her arms around her daughter and leaning an intangible cheekbone on her hair. She didn't know how memory loss worked once someone crossed over. Wasn't sure if Coco would remember after her death. But in a world where memory was the power that ran beneath everything, the idea of dementia was a horrifying one. At least Coco had told stories of the rest of the Riveras. She was telling one now, laughing a little as she told a story about her Tíos.

Clearly she wasn't all gone.

"I love you, m'ija," Imelda murmured. "When you cross over, we'll help you remember."

Unable to hear her, or feel her embrace, Coco continued to laugh with her daughter.

Miguel's first stir of musical intrigue that he could remember was when Luisa took him to the market one day. She was holding his hand tight, encouraging him to walk on his toddling little legs, his feet falling heavily in his sturdy Rivera shoes. They passed near the Mariachi Plaza, where a band was tuning up for the afternoon's concert. Miguel hesitated in his previously confident step, staring in that direction, and Luisa pulled to a halt beside him.

"Do you hear the band, Miguel?" she asked, keeping her voice light and soft. "Ay, your abuelita doesn't like the plaza. There is too much music there, m'ijo. Come along, we'll go to the market and get you a sweet, huh?"

Enticed by the prospect of candy, Miguel complied. From the plaza, the strumming of a guitar drifted on the breeze. A few test chords, short and simple. But the sound resonated in Miguel's soul, setting his heart racing and making the hair on the back of his neck rise.

"Mamá, can we go?"

"No, m'ijo." Luisa cast a look towards the plaza. Miguel was still too little to read the complex mix of emotions that swam there. All he knew was his mother was preventing him from following that enticing sound. "No music, remember? Come on."

He sat down in the middle of the street. Pulled his hand free of hers and pouted up at her. "Wanna go. Wanna listen."

"Miguelito, please." Luisa covered her eyes for a moment, then took a slow breath and put on a stern face. "Get up. We're going to the market or we're going home."

The injustice of it all welled in Miguel's eyes, a sheen of tears that darkened his irises to almost black. "Wanna go," he said, his voice wavering.

At the sight of the tears, Luisa crouched next to him, putting her hands on his cheeks. "I know. There are always things in life that we can't have. We have a choice, Miguel, and family is more important than music. One day you'll understand."

He started to cry. She lifted him up, held him on her hip, and hugged him tight. And headed to the market, away from the band that was just kicking into their first number.

Héctor sat in his shack, dangling his feet in the river. The water was cold and murky, when he looked down his bones were obscured in the dirt. Now and then a glowing fish with spider legs or a salamander with dragging ears would dart beneath, occasionally pausing to nibble on his metatarsals. He would kick at them, absentmindedly, his attention focused on the notebook in his hands.

It had been half empty when he finished writing songs. The empty staves had hurt his heart for years, it seemed, but now he had thought of a use for them. He had flipped the book upside down so he didn't have to look at his carefully pencilled notes, didn't have to hear the music in his mind. On the inside cover he had written the words: "After my final death, please give this to Imelda Rivera".

Now he was using it as a memoir. Making a list of all of his schemes over the years. It had taken a while to count back over all the different approaches he had made to the checkpoint. A direct approach was the first he marked down, along with a series of tallies that took up, to his surprise, most of a page. After the schemes he'd dogeared another page and started writing letters.

He flipped to that page now. Squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of tears, then read through the first few lines again.

My dearest Imelda,

I'm so sorry, mi amor. You made my life worth living. I am sorry that I didn't get to spend more time with you. It is the greatest regret of my afterlife, and is the heaviest burden I carry. I hope one day you will forgive me.

The words blurred, prisms of light blocking his vision, and he snapped the book shut. Held it to his chest as he breathed the tears away. Tasting dust and the briny air rising from the river. When the prickle in his eyes had subsided, he opened to the list of attempts again. Traced a finger down the list, then nabbed up the snub of pencil. It was tiny, barely a sliver away from completely finished, and he held it with the very tip of his fingers, applied very slight pressure to mark the staves.

A lot of his plans were based around disguise, it seemed. And he did not have access to a lot of the wigs and outfits he required to pull them off.

It seemed that he was going to visit Ceci again.