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Here we go again ;)
xxxx
Miguel remains sitting, staring in awe at the spot where he thinks—knows—Héctor may have been only a few moments ago, just unable to see him. Dante and Pepita have left, and while the boy feels sad that he won't see the alebrijes or have a chance to talk to Héctor until next year, he feels content now that he knows his great-great grandfather is okay, that he survived the Final Death. Miguel had been ripped away from him so suddenly as dawn had approached in the Land of the Dead that he hadn't been sure ever since, and the thought terrified him that Héctor may not have survived. But now he knows for sure, and a smile can't seem to leave his face.
"So...who were you talking to?" A voice speaks up inside the ofrenda room. His smile fading, Miguel realizes that he may not have been as alone as he had previously thought, turning to see Prima Rosa standing in the doorway. Her arms are crossed, and she stares at him suspiciously. There was no way she could have known that Héctor was here, and he wasn't about to say anything about him lest he wanted her to think he was loco.
"What do you mean?" Miguel asks innocently, standing and picking up Héctor's guitar from the floor to lightly strum its strings. The gentle sound echoes throughout the room, but it doesn't distract Rosa from her question.
"I saw you come in here and heard you talking, but there was no one here other than Dante and the cat," she says, her eyes glancing back and forth as if to try and find the two. But Miguel knows that they must be back in the Land of the Dead by now; Héctor was back with their family—with Coco—where he belonged. The Final Death hadn't taken him—he was okay, and Miguel appreciated that he had managed to find a way to tell him. His worry is gone, and he can relax with the knowledge that he doesn't have to wait until he dies to find out if Héctor 'lived.'
Maybe even next year, Dante and Pepita could help them talk again, and excitement bubbles in Miguel's chest at the thought. Día de los Muertos was definitely going to be more fun to look forward to than it already was.
"Pepita," Miguel makes sure to remind his cousin about the cat. He had never seen the gray-striped feline himself before tonight, but he knew it had to be none other than the giant and winged alebrije, especially if she had come with Dante. He faintly wonders in the back of his mind how Dante is getting used to his own, new wings in the Land of the Dead, and has to hold back a chuckle thinking of possible falls and crashes.
"And how do you know that?" Rosa asks, her arms still crossed as if she's interrogating him rather than asking simple questions.
"What?" Miguel asks, just to be sure he'd heard right; her question grates against his mind that was having a bit of difficulty coming up with answers. There was no way he could explain how he knew Pepita's name, or why he had been 'talking to himself' without explaining where he had gone last year, and who he'd met. He hadn't exactly told the truth about where he had gone to any of his family, especially not his parents, and they hadn't bothered to ask where their son had been all night. Thankfully, his mother had reasoned that it didn't matter as long as they were together, and his father hadn't pushed. He'd been grounded as punishment for a week of course, but other than that they never gave it second thought.
"How do you know the cat's name? She's a stray like Dante, right? And why hasn't he been with you like he usually is?" Rosa keeps up her questions, and Miguel's shoulders slump slightly. Dante was a real alebrije now, and he had to stay in the Land of the Dead with the others during the rest of the year. He was only allowed to come on one night, just like them. It was odd not having the stray follow him like he had normally done—to not have a constant friend and companion with him, but there was nothing he or Dante could do.
"Why do you ask so many questions?" Miguel shoots back, his tone unintentionally harsh. His grip on Héctor's guitar tightens, and Rosa seems to notice that she had struck a chord the wrong way.
"I was just wondering," she says as she uncrosses her arms, her glasses glinting in the sun that's finally risen outside the door. "You've been really quiet tonight, you know? We just want to know that you're okay."
Miguel realizes that his parents must be the reason she had asked so many questions; he had skipped out on most of dinner to be alone with Mamá Coco as he had said. He hadn't expected to talk to Héctor, and must have been longer than he'd thought.
"...I'm fine," he reassures his cousin, his grip on the guitar loosening. She still doesn't seem to be too sure.
But he was better than fine—more than he had been all night. Now that he knew Héctor was okay, all of the worry that had tormented him previously was gone; it was just Prima Rosa and her annoying questions that brought a bit of the torment back.
Smirking, Rosa's mouth opens to ask yet another question just to annoy him, and one Miguel knows he can't avoid.
"So where did you really go last year? I know you went to Ernesto's tomb and stole the guitar that he actually stole." She points towards the guitar as she says the words, and Miguel hugs it closer to his chest. "But how did you find out that it wasn't actually his, apart from the torn picture that Mamá Coco had?"
Miguel's shoulders tense, but he makes sure not to give away his uneasiness by gripping the guitar again. One day, he would try and muster enough courage to tell his family about what had really happened last year, or even show them through Dante and Pepita when the time came. But for now, he wanted nothing more than to keep it a secret and not be seen as crazy when he didn't have any proof that the Land of the Dead really did exist.
Though now that he thinks about it, maybe he should tell someone...at least Prima Rosa, and in a way that wouldn't make it seem like he was crazy.
It might stop her from asking even more questions, and the idea wins him over. Carefully, he avoids the latter part of the question—just how had he known that the guitar belonged to their Papa Héctor aside from the photo and Mamá Coco's stories? He'd just taken the guitar like it was no big deal, like it hadn't belonged to the greatest musician of all time. He'd had to have known something beforehand—the tomb couldn't have been the only place he had gone all night.
"Do you really want to see where I went last year?" Miguel asks, and he can't help a knowing grin from stretching across his face to try and make her more intrigued than she already was.
Rosa doesn't expect him to agree, and blinks before nodding hesitantly. "Can you take me there?"
No. The only way for the living to see the Land of the Dead was if they passed on or became cursed, and Miguel wasn't planning on doing either anytime soon nor his cousin, for that matter.
"Maybe," he settles with, shrugging and his knowing smile staying in place as he sets his grandfather's guitar near the ofrenda to be safe.
"Let's ask if we can go for a morning walk," Rosa says, nodding towards the open door. "I'm sure they won't mind if we help clean up the table first."
Día de los Muertos was one of the few nights they were allowed to stay up until dawn, after all, and they were far from tired.
xxxx
After a bit of convincing, his Mamá and Papá decided to allow the two of them to go on their walk, but only if Prima Rosa made sure to keep a close eye on him, and that he promised not to run away again. Miguel agreed to both conditions and as they walk through the cemetery where he leads Rosa, he finds it difficult for his thoughts not to stray back to the night of last year again.
He can easily remember the direction he had gone towards the bridge where their deceased family had first taken him, even if he had just gone through a fit of panic at what had been happening to him; it wasn't easy to forget something so out of the ordinary like getting cursed and seeing skeletons everywhere. He wasn't sure how the marigold bridge worked—if it remained where it was by the time daylight arrived or if it completely disappeared—but he can remember exactly where it would be nonetheless, even if they might not be able to see the bridge itself.
It obviously isn't what Rosa had expected as they approach the wall at the edge of the cemetery, fog covering what might be seen on the other side. Miguel realizes then that throughout the year, no matter what the weather or season it was, the fog always seemed to stay. No one ever really questioned the permanent fog in a cemetery, but it made a lot of sense now that he knew what was really on the other side.
Skeletons and the Land of the Dead (and even vitamins) actually existed, so why not a magic fog that would keep it all hidden from the eyes of the living, even if the living themselves wouldn't be able to see anything? Miguel figures that something had to hide what would most likely be just a blank space that would cause questions to arise.
"There's nothing here," Rosa says, disappointed and glaring from behind her glasses. "Are you trying to trick me or something?"
Unable to offer an explanation why he had brought her to the cemetery, Miguel can only shrug, staring at the grave ofrendas around them—candle lights that are either already fading or beginning to dim in the sun's morning glow next to offerings left behind by the living. Most were empty by now; families had left since it was morning now, and some were just making it out of the entrance to go back home.
It was just the two of them, that is...except for an odd shape laying on the ground a few feet away. Though squinting and looking closer, Miguel can see that it's not exactly an odd shape, but a man who seems to have passed out face-first onto the ground.
His head is turned in Miguel's direction—eyes closed—and the closer he looks, the more Miguel begins to see that it isn't just any man, but that he feels he knows him.
Their own ofrenda flashes across his mind, and Miguel has to stop himself from falling over as the photo of Papa Héctor appears—no longer torn apart, revealing who was really holding Ernesto's guitar.
Is that...?
"Papa Héctor?!" He cries, immediately rushing towards the fallen man before Rosa can stop him. She calls out to him but he ignores her, kneeling besides the limp body.
No, it can't be his great-great grandfather, because Héctor is supposed to be...dead. But the person laying on the ground before him is...
The thought strays, because it just isn't possible. His Papa Héctor couldn't be here in the Land of the Living, because he wasn't living.
Yet here he was with skin instead of bones. He wears his familiar purple vest and brown pants along with his straw hat that lays to the side like it had fallen off at some point, a bit battered like it had been through a struggle. Miguel's heart picks up its pace, nearly pounding out of his chest at the thought that something—or someone—may have attacked the man that looks like Héctor at some point during the night.
De la Cruz comes to mind first, though Miguel doesn't see a way he could have gotten out from under the bell. But maybe he had figured out a way to escape, and the murderer had also figured out a way to actually touch the living, mistaking this man to be Héctor. A shiver runs down Miguel's spine at the thought, and he looks left and right to see if anyone else is nearby—a skeleton or even Dante and Pepita—but neither dog nor cat are anywhere in sight, and the cemetery is void of any skeletons.
His deceased family is nowhere to be found, and Miguel can only guess that they're on the other side of the bridge. Maybe they were watching them right now and just weren't able to do anything since Día de los Muertos was over...
"What do you mean 'Papa'?" Rosa asks, expecting yet receiving no answer from her cousin. Miguel ignores her, his eyes refusing to leave the man.
"How...?" Miguel murmurs to himself, trying to keep calm and failing miserably as his hands shake. "How is this possible?"
It's not him. It can't be him, his mind races.
"How is what possible?"
The questions from her just never seemed to end, but they no longer grated. Miguel suddenly realizes that he has a far bigger problem on his plate.
As far as he knows, no one in the entire world who has died ever...came back to life.
Once a person was gone from the living world, they stayed that way, no matter how much they or their loved ones wished otherwise. Maybe there were miracles when it came to near-death situations, but not for someone who had been gone as long as Héctor.
"Come on Miguel, let's go back. He probably just had too much to drink tonight. He'll be fine in the morning," Rosa says, tugging at his sleeves to try and get him to leave with her.
"It is morning," Miguel reminds her, remaining rooted to the spot. He couldn't move even if he wanted to, like he was glued to the ground itself and unable to get up.
Sunrise. Miguel's stomach drops as he realizes that Héctor must have been late getting back to the bridge, and had never made it across. Was it because of him? Had Héctor been late because he wanted to see him one last time before the night ended, to try and let him know that he was okay? The boy's breathing picks up at the realization, guilt almost overcoming his shock that Héctor himself is here in the Land of the Living. He's not a skeleton, but a living human just like him and Rosa...no, it can't be Papa Héctor. He has to be mistaking him with someone else!
"Let's go," Rosa persists more sternly, but Miguel remains kneeling.
How could his cousin be so cruel? Even if it wasn't Papa Héctor, they couldn't just leave a stranger out in the open who needed their help. If this man really was his great-great grandfather, Miguel absolutely wasn't going to just leave him behind, either.
The man's chest is falling and rising, a sign that he's actually, really breathing, but only barely...if they didn't do something and soon, there was a chance that he could...
Miguel doesn't want to think about that. Héctor may have died once before, but Miguel knows he can't let him die a second time. Not yet at least, if they could even figure out a way to send him back to the Land of the Dead without dying again...they needed to know what had happened that caused this, to make sure that the man really was Héctor in the first place. Miguel had experience with being cursed, but not like this—if it even was a curse.
The man resembling Héctor groans lightly in his unconscious state and Miguel flinches at the pitiful, weak sound, but otherwise the man doesn't wake.
"W-we need to get help," Miguel stutters, unsure of what else he can do.
"We don't even know him," Rosa argues, firm in her decision to leave the man behind.
Miguel frowns, but then realization dawns on him that of course Rosa wouldn't know who Héctor is, or even be suspicious of a man that shared so many similarities.
Just because his family had placed Héctor's photo on the ofrenda, it didn't mean that any of them would instantly recognize someone they had been trying to forget for decades. Maybe it was for the better considering their current situation, but it didn't make things any easier, either. Miguel would have to explain a few things, and he's not sure if his family would believe him, or even the two of them when Héctor woke up no matter if they had a photo to prove that a man had somehow come back to life. Sometimes he didn't believe himself that he had been sent to the Land of the Dead on the last Día de los Muertos.
But Rosa seems to understand that the two of them at least know each other when the man suddenly opens his mouth. In just the slightest movement, a single word comes out, and her eyes widen as she takes a step back.
"Miguel..."
His eyes widen along with his cousin's, the name that he had spoken confirming that yes...it was indeed Héctor, maybe recognizing the voice of his great-great grandson next to him even in his unconscious state.
"What happened, Papa Héctor?" Miguel whispers. His grandfather doesn't respond, seemingly falling deeper into unconsciousness.
"H-How does he know you? Why do you keep calling him Papa Héctor? They can't be the same person," Rosa demands, done with being ignored. "That's impossible. First you were talking to yourself, and now this...stranger is your Papá? You're crazy."
But he is the same person. Miguel is almost in just as much denial as Rosa, but he's positive now that the man had said his own name. He doesn't even care that she had called him crazy as he feared his family might do.
"Please, Rosa," Miguel begs, avoiding her hundredth question entirely. "Go get Mamá and Papá. Anyone. We can't just leave him here."
It finally hits Rosa just how important the situation seems to be, and how much the person means to her cousin as Miguel reaches a hand towards the man. With a new sense of urgency and to Miguel's relief, she rushes back towards home. His parents will know what to do!
Upon wrapping his hand around his great-great grandfather's, Héctor flinches unexpectedly like he'd been stung, unconsciously wrenching his hand away and his brow furrowing in apparent pain.
Miguel pulls his hand back apologetically, realizing how sensitive his new skin must be, and Héctor's pained expression lessens.
"Just hang on, Papa Héctor," he says quietly to his great-great grandfather.
xxxx
"He'll be okay, right Mamá?" Miguel asks his mother to ease his newly returned worry, tentative as he faces his parents for the first time since they had rushed Héctor to their home. Luisa stands outside the guest room that they had placed him in, and Miguel tries to see behind her, but she remains where she is as his Papá comes out of the room, as well. Abuelita remains by his side holding baby Socorro with one hand, her other hand on his shoulder as if to keep him from running off to avoid getting in possible trouble.
"Yes, mijo. He'll just need to take it easy when he wakes up," Luisa answers, much to his relief. He sighs, and she tilts her head to the side in confusion at her son's reaction to someone he apparently knew—someone that they didn't know themselves, yet Miguel had almost demanded them to carry him here to their home all the way from the cemetery.
Miguel had stuck close by the whole way back, refusing to part with him until he had been forced to remain outside the guest room. She'd noticed how nervous he seemed as they carried the man through town in broad daylight, as if he was afraid someone would recognize him, and she glances towards her husband.
"How do you know this man?" Papa Enrique asks, rightfully suspicious of the stranger that they had brought into their home. He brings a hand to his forehead to rub the side, understandably tired from this morning's events and the apparent trouble that his son keeps getting into on a certain night; or morning as it was now. Why did it seem that these things were beginning to happen on Día de los Muertos, and that they had to do with his son?
Miguel pauses, blinking at his father's question and unsure of how to respond. He wants to tell his family the truth about Héctor, to show them the photo on the ofrenda up close so they could see that he was the same person and remind them of his great-great grandfather, but somehow he feels it's not a good idea.
Not yet. If too many people found out that Héctor had come back to life, he could end up being in danger from those who would want to know how.
"...He helped me get home last year," Miguel answers slowly, albeit nervous. Yet it wasn't too far from the truth and for all he knows, Héctor now needed his help to get back home.
Because of me. He wanted to come back here because of me, and now he's stuck in the Land of the Living with us, he can't help the blame that seeps through. He doesn't know what happened yet, but he must be part of the reason that Héctor is laying in the room now.
Abuelita gasps at the idea that Miguel had conversed with strangers the year prior, holding Socorro closer to her chest. Talking with those in the plaza was bad enough when music had still been banned in their home, but running off and talking to complete strangers was another. Who knew what the man could have done to him? He could have been kidnapped! But both of his parents' expressions soften into gentle smiles of understanding, thankful that the man had even bothered to help their son return home at all.
"We'll make sure he's alright, Miguel," Enrique eases Miguel's worry, and Miguel smiles back in relief. "If he helped you come home, this is the least we can do for him."
"Gracias, Papá," Miguel says gratefully. Héctor was safe now. "Can...can I stay with him so I'll be there when he wakes up?"
Enrique nods in agreement, positive his son would only disobey him anyway if he said no, and he doesn't see a reason why he shouldn't be allowed to stay with the man to show his gratitude for helping him home. Luisa moves from the door so he can enter, but Miguel has another idea instead.
"I'll be right back," he says, rushing towards the ofrenda room to get Héctor's guitar where he had left it before leaving with Rosa. He stops in front of the ofrenda itself, unable to rip his gaze away from the picture that contained Héctor, Imelda and little Coco.
It feels wrong, but Miguel reaches a free hand up to take hold of the photo, his fingers trembling slightly as he places them around the picture.
He doesn't want to, but he knows he has to unless he wants Papa Héctor to be in danger. He was well-remembered now by the stories that Mamá Coco had told them before passing on, so Miguel was almost sure it wouldn't affect his stance in the Land of the Dead. The Final Death wouldn't creep up on him again despite the fact that Rosa and the others hadn't yet put two and two together. He was a part of their family who was supposed to be long gone—not recognizing Héctor despite remembering him. It was no longer Día de los Muertos, so the photo didn't currently need to be on the ofrenda so his deceased family could cross over.
He cannot allow anyone to suspect that the man in the photo and the man they had brought into their home were the same person. Once Héctor woke up, they would have to be careful going outside should anyone recognize the man Miguel had proved to write Remember Me along with his other songs that De la Cruz had stolen from him.
Mamá Imelda smashing the computer upon finding out that her photo hadn't been put up because it had accidentally been dropped seeps guiltily into his mind. If she found out he was now taking the photo willingly off the ofrenda, who knew what she would do to him even if he was her great-great grandson?
"...I'm sorry," he says sincerely, truly meaning it as he takes the photo down. His family would notice eventually, but a missing photo would be easier to explain and come up with a lie for than trying to explain how a man had come back to life.
xxxx
Miguel enters the guest room slowly after his return from the ofrenda, gripping Héctor's guitar gently and making sure that not even his footsteps have a chance at waking the skeleton-turned-human. He draws the curtains over the single window so he won't be blinded by the sun when he wakes.
His gaze rests on the bed that holds a living, breathing Héctor, and still Miguel can only wonder what had happened that caused him to return in such a state...
Alive.
"He's the one you were talking to, isn't he?" The same voice from the ofrenda room says gently from the doorway. Miguel glances up to see Prima Rosa again, and all he can do is sigh in defeat. "I don't know how, but he was with you, wasn't he?"
Miguel nods, and Rosa's eyes trail suspiciously towards the man resting in bed.
"Where I went last year...is where he came from," Miguel says slowly so it can sink in. After a moment, he pulls out the photo that he had taken from the ofrenda, handing it to his cousin.
Rosa gasps at the fact that he had done such a thing so soon after Día de los Muertos, but allows Miguel to hand the picture to her. She blinks in confusion at first, her head turning from the photo to the man and then back again. But then her eyes widen in realization, and she lifts a hand to her mouth.
"Whoa...sorry I called you crazy," she apologizes.
But Miguel no longer cares about being called a name.
"Prima Rosa...can you keep a secret?" Miguel asks, holding onto hope that she will. She'd put two and two together faster than Miguel had thought she would, but his parents and Abuelita haven't—the last thing they would suspect about the stranger was him actually being a part of their family, even if they had learned about him through Mamá Coco and now remembered him because of her stories.
Rosa can only nod, her shock nearly getting the better of her as she stares wide-eyed at the man they had rescued.
Miguel was right. The man in the bed and the man in the photo are the same person. But how?
The mystery of where her cousin had gone last year was finally solved, and she understood why he had taken her to the edge of the cemetery where it seemed that nothing had been in sight except for the permanent fog. Maybe Miguel would tell her the rest of the story soon, but for now she knows all he can focus on is his great-great grandfather who had somehow come back to life.
She wants to hear more of the story now, but out of respect leaves the two to be alone. Miguel takes his place in a chair next to the bed, guitar in hand.
His mother had said that Héctor would be alright—that he would just need to rest and take it easy. But somehow, Miguel has a feeling it won't be that simple.
"You have to wake up, Papa Héctor," he pleas quietly. "Please wake up."