The sun is shining. A slight breeze ripples by now and again, just enough to keep the heat from being overbearing. A few white, fluffy clouds dot the sky.

The weather is absolutely perfect.

Alma settles carefully into a seat next to her son, looking out across the yard. Grandchildren are chasing their own children, or nephews, or nieces. Others are lying in the grass with their lovers, enjoying a lazy day. Her daughters are cooped up in the kitchen with their husbands, plotting.

"You know it's supposed to be a surprise," Bruno says.

Her son is sprawled out next to her, his eyes closed, enjoying the sun. He's no longer as pale as he once was, though he's still thin-he never fully regained the weight he lost during those ten years behind the walls, and even now he still has trouble eating, when his visions are particularly troubling.

"What else could they be doing?" the woman demands, and is gratified by the smirk that surfaces briefly before he tries to smother it.

Things are better between them. Alma thinks they'll always be a little uncomfortable around each other. Her son will always be reserved, polite and careful and occasionally a bit timid. There will always be tension between them. Her fault, really.

If anything, she's lucky they have the relationship they do. She knows full well that it's her son's doing. She's grateful that he's been willing to work as hard at it as he has, in spite of how she hurt him.

In spite of how much she's failed him over the years.

"At least pretend to be surprised?" he suggests. "If you aren't, they'll blame me, and I don't feel like being rained on today."

Alma almost chuckles at the thought.

He shifts, rolls his shoulders, and repositions himself so that he won't fall. His eyes, when he opens them, glow bright green.

She waits, noting the way his body tenses, and the slight trembling that follows. His breathing hitches for a moment before evening out.

Dolores looks up, briefly, before turning her attention back to a small blur of a child launching itself in her direction. Her body language is relaxed, suggesting they have nothing to worry about.

He gave them a scare, last winter, when he stopped breathing mid-vision. Alma can still hear her granddaughter's panicked, "I can't hear his heartbeat!"

His heart had simply stopped. The doctor called it 'cardiac arrest.' Bruno had been lucky Dolores was there. Lucky that Antonio had immediately run for help.

Alma looks back at her son. His hair is more silver than black by now, his eyes, even without a vision, more green than hazel. She wonders if it's because of his gift. Still thin, he at least no longer has a skeletal look about him.

He still favors the ruana as his choice of clothing, though the one he's currently wearing is a deep blue-Mirabel has made him one every year, each in a different color, on the anniversary of Casita falling. Alma's pretty sure he has one in every color imaginable by now, except, of course, red.

There are two rats sitting on the back of the settee, waiting for his vision to pass. Alma still doesn't care for the creatures, but over the years she's come to recognize how important they are to him, so she refrains from commenting on them as much as possible.

They're watching her now, as if they know exactly what she's thinking.

Bruno's body abruptly goes slack, and the light in his eyes fades. He lets out a sigh, rubs his face, and looks around without sitting up.

Alma waits for him to figure out where he is. When he carefully sits up, and the rats scurry back to hide in his sleeves, she leans slightly forward, getting his attention.

"Do you need anything?"

Bruno shakes his head. "I'm-I'm okay, thanks." The words come out slightly slurred. The stutter is always there, too now, when he first comes out of a vision, but considering the doctor told them he'd likely never speak without either again, Alma figures they've been fortunate.

When his mother raises an eyebrow at his assertion, he offers her a rueful grin. "Nothing that can-nothing that can be helped." He sighs. "The vision-it-it was someone I'll never meet, a-a hundred y-years and thousands-thousands of miles away."

"Doesn't make it any easier," Alma ventures. She likes to think she understands her son a little better now.

"No," he agrees, shaking his head. He's rubbing his arm, absently, and a slight but steady tremble continues to run through his body.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, careful to keep her tone neutral, as if she doesn't care one way or the other. As if she doesn't expect him to do anything unless he wants to.

Because she knows that sometimes it helps, to talk about it. He's most likely to share with Augustín-it came as a bit of a surprise initially, that he found it easier to open up to his brother-in-law than anyone else, but they've long since gotten used to it. The sharing seems to ease the burden of his gift, at times.

There are other times when it doesn't help, though, and Alma doesn't want him to feel pressured to do what he thinks she wants.

A wry grin tells her he knows exactly what she's doing, but he only shakes his head once more.

"I-I-she didn't deserve what happened to her," he says, and something in his tone says he does not wish to elaborate, so Alma doesn't pry.

They sit and watch as Alma's grandchildren-and great-grandchildren play in the yard. Gradually she becomes aware that Bruno is fidgeting with the hem of his ruana.

It's a nervous habit he's never fully been able to break, though the days of him throwing salt and knocking on wood are mercifully behind them. It's a relief, not so much because the habits could be distracting at times, but more because of what their absence means.

Bruno no longer considers himself a curse on his family. Gone is the self-loathing, the belief that his presence causes problems for the people around him. Antonio played a large part in that, and Mirabel of course, and Alma is grateful.

The anxiety never fully went away, though he's gotten better, both at managing it, and at hiding it when he can't. And at seeking the comfort and support of his family when he can't quite succeed at either.

She can tell, though, by the way he's worrying at the material now, that he has something on his mind.

Their eyes meet. Bruno knows he's been caught, and immediately stops, carefully smoothing out the fabric in his ruana. He offers her a timid smile.

"You know, most-most people don't live as long out-outside of the Encanto," he says. His tone is light, but she can tell by the undercurrent of tension that it's something he's been thinking about for a while. "A lot of people don't live to see-A lot of people don't live to see a hundred. And-and if they do, they're usually not so-so-healthy. Mentally or physically."

Alma considers this information, and she knows, from a youth lived a lifetime ago and nearly forgotten, that he's right.

"Seventy-" he takes a breath. "Seventy-five is actually p-pretty old, outside-outside."

"Are you saying people don't age the same here?" she asks. It's an interesting thought.

Bruno shrugs.

"Juli's food heals injuries, illness. There's a lot-a lot of sickness we just don't see here, maybe because of her food. It's possible it slows down the aging process. Could be our bodies-our bodies don't break down as fast, or that her food heals some of that-but even our gifts have their, have their limits. Could be the miracle itself. The candle. The magic. Whatever-whatever protects this place."

"I'm starting to feel old," she admits. "Whatever is causing it. I didn't feel old at fifty, even though I had grown children old enough to marry. I started feeling more-tired, I suppose, in my seventies, but still not old. Now my hair is white, and I feel like an old woman."

"You're nowhere near done yet," he says, and something about it feels like a prophecy. He catches himself, and winces. "I'd guess you have a few good years left in you," he adds, trying to cover his tracks.

"So you know when I'm to die, mijo?" She isn't as troubled by the thought of dying as she expected, though the sudden pang of sorrow that flashes in her son's eyes is another matter entirely. "I am sorry, Brunito. No child should have to know such a thing."

"I know when everyone dies," he admits, catching her off-guard, his voice soft. "I've known how and when you die since I was six. The others-I've seen them all, over the years."

"And yourself?"

"I don't look into my own future." It's a rule of his, not to do so. "But I can sort of guess, based on visions I've had of other family members." He looks out across the yard again, and Alma is struck by how worn he looks. How tired.

He turns back to her, and smiles, and though he still looks tired, he also looks content. "Feliz cumpleaños," he says.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. She doesn't want to ruin the mood, but she also doesn't want to ignore the tiny piece of his soul that he's just opened up to her. "I wish I had realized sooner, the burden your gift put on you. If I had, maybe-"

He waves her off, because it's a conversation they've had before many, many times. It is, perhaps, one of Alma's greatest regrets, the way she treated her son. Never mind all the excuses. Never mind that none of them really understood what was happening when they first received their gifts.

Someone shouts a warning just in time for Bruno to catch the child throwing itself in his lap, though he does not manage to do so unscathed. Alma watches him swallow back a yelp as he wraps the child in a tight hug while simultaneously threatening to feed them to Antonio's jaguar.

The child, unimpressed and unintimidated, laughs right in his face.

Her daughters appear, husbands in tow, and Augustín plucks his grandchild out of Bruno's lap with little effort. "We've talked about this, mi corazon," he scolds half-heartedly. "You're getting too big. Keep that up and one day you're going to snap Tío Bruno right in two."

Alma shakes her head at their antics. Julieta does the same. Their eyes meet, and her daughter laughs.

"Took you long enough," Alma teases. "How long could it possibly take you to bake a cake, mija? And since when did you need help?"

A raincloud immediately bursts over Bruno's head, the downpour setting him spluttering.

"I didn't-didn't say anything. P-Pepa, please!" He doesn't try to move, knowing the cloud will simply follow. When one sister does not relent, he turns to the other. "Come on, Juli. Make-Make her stop."

Julieta sighs. "Come on, Pepa. You know Bruno can't tell a lie to save his life. It was only a matter of time before she figured it out. And anyway, the point was to keep her out of the kitchen, not oblivious."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Pepa insists, refusing to banish the cloud. Bruno splutters for a moment longer before trying a different tactic.

"It's a girl," he announces, receiving a glare for his efforts. The downpour increases. "Five pounds, eight ounces, born-"

"Okay!" Pepa banishes her brother's personal raincloud with a thought. "Enough!"

Bruno heaves a sigh of relief. "I kept her occupied," he points out mildly, settling back into the settee right before his eyes start to glow again.

Pepa and Julieta exchange a glance, and Alma knows exactly what they're thinking. The visions have been more and more frequent since last winter. At least-they've been more obvious. More out in the open. Either Bruno can no longer control when he has them, or he's stopped trying altogether.

A moment later he's back with them, looking around and moving so Augustín can sit next to him. Their shoulders brush, briefly, and Bruno leans into the contact.

He offers the rest of them a tight smile and rolls his eyes. "Somebody lost their doll," he offers.

Sometimes his visions involve people getting hurt, but other times they do not. He stretches, arching his back. "Worst part is, her mother told her not to leave it lying around. Dios mio, but I can't bear to see the little ones cry, even if it's over something so small."

Sometimes it seems to Alma that there's no rhyme or reason to the things her son sees.

"When did you stop holding them back?" Augustín asks what they all want to know, and somehow he makes it sound like a perfectly normal conversation opener. Bruno doesn't so much as flinch.

"El Doctor says that it-that it puts my body under too much stress. That I'm not young anymore, and hopefully not s-s-stupid, so I need to stop fighting it, or I put myself at risk of a heart attack or-or worse." The man shrugs. "Apparently the visions themselves are less stressful than trying to hold them-hold them back."

Alma is relieved, that the increase of visions is more or less by choice rather than because he no longer has the strength to hold them back.

"Apparently?" Augustín sounds intrigued. Bruno chuckles.

"We, er-might have tested his-his theory. My blood pressure, heart-heart rate speed up either way, and my-my breathing is erratic at-at best, but if I-if I don't fight it, they stay-it takes less of a toll. Not a good time, though, having someone hovering while I'm in the middle of-of a vision, taking blood pressure readings. Nearly scared us-us both half to death, a few times."

Augustín looks thoughtful. "Does the vision itself have any impact?" he asks. "I know some are worse than others." Bruno shrugs, and again Alma notices how tired her son looks.

"The bad ones, they-" Bruno swallows nervously. He's not entirely comfortable, having this conversation with so many people around at once, but perhaps he senses that it's one they all need to have, because after a moment he continues.

"The worse the vision, the more stress it puts on my body," he admits. "But if I'm not already fighting it, it seems to be manageable, and I don't have to deal with the repercussions of holding it back."

"So no need to worry about the fact that you've had at least five already today?" Augustín asks, and Bruno blushes and clears his throat.

"It's actually been closer to twenty," he admits. "Most of them aren't that interesting, but there have been a few..." he trails off, and shrugs again.

"But it's easier on you?" Augustín presses, his voice gentle. Bruno leans back in the seat, closing his eyes.

"I'm getting used to it," he admits. "And slowly coming to terms with the fact that there's nothing I can do about most of it." He opens one eye, fixing his gaze on Julieta. "What flavor did you decide on?"

Pepa throws her hands up in the air in exasperation. "Aye, Bruno! What part of surprise don't you understand?"

"I don't think anybody in the family understands the concept, mi amor," Felix offers, not entirely helpfully. If anything, he seems to be egging his wife on.

"They could at least pretend," Pepa grumbles.


It doesn't matter that the party isn't a surprise. Or the cake. Alma is just grateful to have her family here, with her, well and whole and happy. She's made a lot of mistakes, she knows, and the fact that they're all still here, the fact that she was given a second chance-

Well, it's a miracle.

Children are running about, getting underfoot, their parents chasing them. Alma's own children are happy, more at peace with themselves and their lives than she could ever have dreamed. Her grandchildren are full of life, and love, and hope.

Mariano is trying desperately to wipe cake off the face of a rambunctious four-year old. Luisa is giving a seven-year-old a piggy-back ride around the room. Dolores and Isabella are tucked away in a corner, whispering, and Mirabel and Camilo are entertaining a handful of children who have all had too much sugar and are up way past their bedtimes.

Felix and Pepa are dancing, while Julieta and Augustín are content to simply watch, arms wrapped around each other as if they were newlyweds.

Bruno comes stumbling into the kitchen, Antonio with him. The younger man has an arm around his uncle's waist, supporting him. Bruno looks haggard, his face drawn and his eyes troubled. He all but collapses into the seat beside Alma, and Antonio goes to get him a glass of water.

"Victor says he wasn't hurt. That it was actually kind of fun," Antonio says as he offers Bruno the glass. "And of course Elaina insisted that he was being insensitive. And inconsiderate. But they're both okay."

Alma raises her eyebrows, silently asking what happened, and Antonio offers her a reassuring smile.

"Someone moved a chair," he explains. "Tío tripped over it instead of sitting when his vision hit. I caught him, no harm done, but it surprised the rats."

Bruno manages a small shaky smile. "No harm done," he echoes, but his voice sounds fragile, and Alma can tell that whatever he saw, it was bad. She longs to pull her son into a hug, but doesn't know if he can handle it right now. Sometimes he has trouble being touched after a vision, and she doesn't want to hurt him.

Almost as if he can read her mind, Antonio reaches out and pats the man on the shoulder. Bruno doesn't pull away, but almost looks disappointed when Antonio excuses himself, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen.

Alma wraps an arm around her son, and something in her loosens when he leans in, bringing his own arm up to return the embrace.

"Sorry," he murmurs. Alma is relieved that it seems to be mostly out of habit. "Not trying to-to cause a scene."

"Shush," she says. "Let me enjoy this."

The rest of the party goes on without them. Bruno isn't quite ready to rejoin the rest of the family yet, and Alma is perfectly content to hold him in her arms for as long as he'll stay. Soon-far too soon, if she's honest-Bruno will pull himself together, and insist that she's missing her own birthday party, and escort her back into the thick of things, with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren everywhere. And she'll realize again how lucky she is, to have such a wonderful family.

But right now, right here, she can hold the son she once thought lost forever in her arms, and marvel in the fact that he's still with her in spite of everything that has happened in their lives.


Disclaimer: Disney's Encanto does not belong to me.