As much as Mirabel always hoped for a peaceful night's sleep, she was quite sad to admit that almost never truly happened anymore. It was as though she lived life truly through her dreams, where people were not as hesitant to actually say the things, they meant. Even her escape to make beautiful, embroidered designs sometimes followed her, almost suffocating her in this dream.

As with most of her nightmares lately, this one shifted fast and didn't hold back anything in order to really hit her hard. The first thing she saw was her own magical door, still undefined in front of her. Even knowing what would happen, she still reached for it desperately, wanting the approval it would bring if only it would stay. The door fell to the floor like glowing sand, and she turned as it bounced back off the ground into the solid shapes of her family behind her.

Even still, like with the door, she continued to reach out for them. Reach out for her big sisters, for her cousins, for her parents, for her Tia and Tio's, for her abuela. It was something she knew deep inside of her to be fact. She would always reach for them, regardless of if they reached back. That was what Mirabel was good for, that was what she was good at. Always being available, even when she was never needed.

When she reached this time, her palm was up, and she found herself lifting her hand in the air and gasping. Never had anyone in the family had marks left on them for long. Never had anyone had their skin sewn together by needle and thread. But there, where she cut her hand on the roof tiles, was her colorful embroidery thread. It stitched her hand together.

She followed the loose string with her eyes to see it connected to the shining silver needle in her other hand. Unable to stop herself she watched in horror, not holding back the painful sobs, as her hand moved of its own accord to decorate the wounded hand with butterflies. Each stitch made her gasp and ache and sob and the once beautiful thread soaked up much of the blood that poured from the wounds she was creating by stitching through her skin and muscle. It was crimson and oozing and as she finished it dripped down her arm, creating pathways of red before she dropped her hand and the sound of the blood hitting cobblestone was the only one echoing.

The drips were steady and when she looked up it was into the eyes of her cousin Dolores. Dolores who was quiet and Mirabel would even go so far as to say timid when she wasn't wearing a mask of indifference. Besides Antonio, Mirabel had always felt most connected to Dolores when her sisters followed the paths their gifts and Abuela provided. Those paths didn't include her when she received no gifts on that fateful day.

Shadows flickered around her tired face. Her eyes were pained, and Mirabel blinked confused, wondering what cruelty would be brought by this sort of expression that was not common in her dreams. After a moment she felt Dolores gently trying to pry her hand open and realized she was pressed against the wall and her bed as though she was pushing herself into a small corner.

Sweat covered her entire body and as the cool air hit her she realized she was wide awake. This was real. Dolores really did look concerned and when she looked down at herself, she almost gasped aloud at what she saw: her dream was not entirely a dream. She was not only drenched in cold sweat, but blood as well that seeped from her tightly squeezed hand. In her sleep she had actually embroidered the cut on her hand shut.

"Oh Mira." Her voice was steeped in sadness, just like Mirabel's skirt was steeped in her own blood. "I hear everything in this house." Her voice was whispery and almost unhearable, "I hear everything, yet I am powerless to save you from the things you do hear as well as the things you don't. All of what I hear." Her teeth grit. "I brought some of Tia Julietta's cooking for you. To heal your hand." She added, as though she needed to explain what it was for.

For a second Mirabel debated whether or not to accept her mama's healing food. "I'm going to have to take the stitches out before you eat." Dolores whispers, "Or it will only hurt more to pull the thread from your hand." A cloth was offered with her quiet apologies, "To chew on." Tears pricked her eyes as she bit down on the cloth while meeting the other girl's eyes. Looking into her cousin's eyes was like seeing her very soul and she was reminded that as much as she felt it, she was not the only one suffering in this house.

Cousin Dolores was right, it was excruciating to pull the threads back out of her hand and she was thankful to have the cloth to bite down on instead of her own tongue. Each thread pulled gently; a cloth pressed against the gaping wounds to stem the flow of blood. Mirabel watched her while she worked diligently to clean her hand of the debris. She was focused and quiet as a mouse. Right now, she didn't look like nosy cousin Dolores, as Abuela decided she was after her gift ceremony left her with super hearing. Right now, she was just careful and mousy Cousin Dolores who moved so softly you never even realized she was there unless you were looking at her. Cousin Dolores who, even before receiving her gift, was a secret keeper of the family. Cousin Dolores, who was so quiet people forgot she was there at all or to send her out of the room before speaking.

As much as you tried, there was no hiding anything from Dolores. Not unless it was done in absolute silence.