"Mira!" Isabela shouts as loud as she can. Scrambling over the ruins of their home. Not minding that she's getting dirty. Frantically shoving away pieces of debris. Listening for even the slightest sign of life from her hermanita.
"Come on. Come on." She chants as she claws away furniture and stone from where she thought she last saw Mirabel. It's empty. She's not there. She starts looking around again, hysterically calling out for her sister with a desperation she has never felt before in her life.
She hears her Mamá shouting as loud as she can. She too is starting to break down. But her mother can't break down. Not when they must find Mirabel. She can't break down because she is her mother. Her mother is always there. Steady, strong as a rock, stronger than Luisa, stronger than anyone. She can't break down because then it would feel like her sister is already gone. And she isn't. She's here somewhere under the rubble, unable to hear them, unable to answer because she has dust in her mouth, but she will answer soon. She has to.
As she continues to shout, she ignores her voice breaking as tears start cascading down her face. She looks over to her other sister, catching her eyes. Luisa isn't faring any better. Her strength is gone. In the one moment, she needs it the most. She needs to find Mirabel. Ignoring her aching limbs and her cracking voice she too screams for her sister.
Abuela stands in front of her destroyed house. Her destroyed Miracle. And she watches, too shocked to move. She watches her daughters looking for her granddaughter.
She watches Agustín as he is unable to decide between comforting his desperate wife or sorting through rubble to find his youngest daughter.
She watches Pepa, no cloud above her head. Trying so hard to not imagine her own children being somewhere under the stones. She lifts huge stones away from the places she thinks her sobrina might be. Becoming more distressed every second they couldn't find her.
Abuela watches Camillo and Dolores work in tandem. Being able to lift more rubble as a team, than on their own. Tears were cascading down Dolores' eyes and Camillo was attempting to hold himself together but occasionally angrily wiping at any tears that slipped through against his will.
None of them could imagine their family getting smaller and tried with all their might to just find their daughter, sister, cousin, and niece.
Abuela also couldn't imagine losing her granddaughter. With a startled gasp Abuela takes a few steps forward. Just now realizing. Just now registering that her granddaughter is somewhere under there. Dying. Her steps speed up and she's running as fast as she can towards the ruins of their life and she pulls away stones, she pulls away their table, she pulls away the sink from their kitchen, she pulls away everything that reminds her of their life because it doesn't matter. Because she needs to find her Mirabel.
Wonderful small Mirabel, who only a few years ago she held in her arms after her daughter gave birth to her 5th grandchild. She remembers looking into her eyes and sending a prayer into the heavens in thanks for her Mirabel.
She prayed for her to have a wonderful life. She prayed for her to never go through the same hardships that she had gone through. And she remembers her eyes watering as she watched little Mirabel falling asleep, being held by her. Trusting her so, and she remembers promising to always protect her, to always love her.
She couldn't break her promise. She couldn't lose someone else in their family. Not after Bruno, not after Pedro. She couldn't. She isn't supposed to outlive her children, she isn't supposed to outlive her grandchildren.
Attempting to lift a broken wardrobe that she was pretty sure stood in her room before, she notices a little object. The candle, their candle, their miracle. It didn't matter anymore, not now, not when they couldn't find Mirabel. She falls to her knees. This was the last thing she saw her granddaughter holding. She cradles the candle close to her chest, as she would have done with Mirabel if she found her instead. "Please." She chants over and over again, rocking forth and back on her knees as if cradling a baby.
Not far from the fallen house stood a figure. Hunched in on himself realizing he is to blame for his sobrina being buried in the ruins of their house. He should have told someone, anyone, about what was going on. He should have explained everything to his Mamá. He should have been brave enough. She would have believed him. She would have listened and then the house would've never collapsed. He too sinks to his knees, left wondering why this wasn't in his vision. Why he never had a vision about his sobrina dying.