It had been nine days since Héctor's last letter.

Nine days since he'd wrote that he'd finally had enough and was coming home to them.

Nine days since he'd wrote that he'd be leaving his awful best friend.

Nine days since he wrote that he'd be returning home so that the townspeople could stop their stabbing gossip and Imelda could quit worrying about him to the point where tears created pressure behind her eyes and her heart and stomach were twisted into knots.

Nine days since he'd written that she should see him in four days, since she'd heard a single word from him or Ernesto at all.

Imelda wasn't usually one to assume the worst or to doubt the people she loved. If she dared to let her confidence in her family waver even the tiniest bit, she always scolded herself and reared her mind back into the right thinking.

Still, ever since Héctor had first extended his trip with Ernesto from two months to two months and three weeks, the wave of uncertainty had been clouding her mind, especially in the other times he'd written that they were invited to perform in more towns and cities.

It's not that Imelda was contemplating if Héctor still loved her; she knew he did and hoped that he would most likely never stop.

But she knew how ambitious and definite he could be if he wanted something, and with Ernesto alone with him and her not there to make sure that nothing got out of hand, she was powerless to stop any part of this and had no way of knowing if Héctor was still okay-- still alive-- if he didn't send any letters to her.

Something must've happened to him. For him to break a promise like this with no warning, for him to worry her like this, for his letters to stop so suddenly and abruptly, for his love for them to seemingly dry out. Maybe he'd gotten sick. Maybe he'd been attacked on his way back to them. Maybe Ernesto did something to him, considering how twisted his mind had been ever since Imelda assaulted him. Maybe he'd left the tour to... go be with someone else.

Imelda tried not to think of it like this. She hated how easily she'd started to let her mind slip into thinking the absolute worst of a person she knew too well, but she couldn't help it: with the lack of ways to communicate across cities, the unreliability of the different hotel staff who collected all the mail, and with Ernesto in control of how this trip went, anything could happen.

And she wasn't the only one who noticed how out of place this was. The day after Héctor had sent his last letter, Coco wouldn't stop asking about him.

"Mamá, will Papá be home tomorrow?"

"When will Papá come home?"

"Mamá, did Papá send another letter? He's supposed to be home by now. We're supposed to sing our song tonight."

"I can't wait to see Papá and Tío 'Nesto. Are they coming back today?"

Imelda provided the best answer she could for the little girl, trying as best she could to keep Coco's worry at bay so she wouldn't start imagining things like Imelda was. The last thing Coco needed was to imagine Héctor hurt or dead in some faraway city with only Ernesto as company. But her answers for Coco became too repetitive, and soon Imelda could find absolutely no words as a response. She started to avoid the question more and more, and Coco would often be heard from her room crying and choking out the words to her and Héctor's song long after Imelda put her to bed.

It went on like this for two more months with no word from either of the men, and soon Imelda had enough. Her fear for Héctor turned to bitterness, her love for him into hate. What right did he have to worry her and Coco like this? What right did he have to make his daughter cry herself to sleep at night while singing the only song he'd written for her? What right did he have to make Imelda's brothers worry about her even more than they ever had in the past?

What right did he have to choose music and Ernesto over her?

One night Imelda finally reached her breaking point. She snatched a piece of paper from her brothers' room, went to her own room, and locked the door so that no one could bother her. She went over to the window and kneeled down so she could lean on the windowsill as she wrote, using the moonlight as a guide as she started writing furiously, letting her anger and Coco's sobbing dictate her words. She made sure to press hard with the pencil she was using so that Héctor felt her anger. She let her tears of rage stain the paper so he could see how hurt she felt.

When she was through, she wiped her eyes roughly and stared down at the letter she'd written. She made sure it painted a picture of her hatred for him. She wanted to send it to him right that moment so he felt her ire as soon as possible... but then she felt her heart twist. She couldn't send this to him. That would be like showing that she still cared about him and that definitely wasn't the case. He didn't deserve to know anything about them anymore; he was heartless enough to forget about them, so she would do the same to him.

Imelda had a better idea of what to do. She carefully crept down the dark hallway to the back door, dashing across the yard to attic as soon as possible and letting the warm night air slightly calm her down. She climbed the ladder to the sign that serves as the door and flung the letter inside amongst a few notes from Héctor that she couldn't bring herself to throw away or burn because she knew that they were some of her and Coco's personal favorites.

She scowled at the sight of all those notes as she climbed back down, scolding herself for thinking that Héctor cared about her more than anything else. She would no longer consider him her husband or her friend. She would make him as nonexistant as he'd made her and Coco. She'd forget him just as he'd forgotten her.