A part of Ernesto de la Cruz had always longed to return to Santa Cecilia. Well, perhaps not always. But certainly once he'd achieved stardom. He'd had news articles mailed to him, so he knew he was on the front page of the town's paper any time he did anything noteworthy…which apparently was any time he did anything at all. He'd seen photos of the statues they'd built of him, art contests his face had won, festivals and singing competitions held in his name! He had always dreamed of becoming his hometown's sole claim to fame. And he had done it. And he dreamt often of the day he would walk the cobbled streets of his mundane childhood and be nearly trampled by admirers-no, worshipers.

So why did it take Ernesto nearly 13 years to return to Santa Cecilia after leaving to go play for the world?

Well…there was a certain matter that had to be handled delicately. And he finally felt that it was time.

The day of his homecoming was everything he had ever dreamed it would be, from the belated ribbon cutting at de la Cruz Plaza, to the photos of him that hung in every establishment he was willing to enter, to the scream and cries whenever he was spotted, to the hoards of townsfolk who gathered around the stage to hear him sing. And sing he did. Then he signed autographs, posed for photos, autographed photos, kissed babies, hugged children, flirted with senioritas half his age, shook hands, and spouted out, "The best advice I could ever give? Seize your moment."

At exactly half past two, Ernesto announced that his visit to Santa Cecilia had come to an end and implored its residents to remember him. This was met with a roar of applause, peppered with cries of "We will!" In his Rolls Royce, he rode off into the sunrise.

And then back at his hotel room, he waited.

Minutes ticked by. For a brief moment, he wondered if perhaps he'd been wrong. He wasn't often wrong about people. But if there'd ever been a hard nut to crack, it was her.

At exactly a quarter past three, two sharp taps sounded on his door. He opened it.

And there she was. All 5-and-a-half feet of her, wrapped in plain grey wool. Every bit as hard, cold, and infuriated as he'd expected.

"He's not here," Ernesto said.

Something flashed across her eyes. Disappointment? Relief? Anger? Some winning combination of the three?

"Then where is he?" She spoke, her voice crackling like fire.

"It's hard to say, exactly. It's been a few years since we parted ways. You'll forgive me if I'm unsure exactly which state he's in with his new partners in song."

Her face seemed to soften, but only by a fraction of a fraction.

"How long has it been since you heard from him?"

"At this point…" Ernesto's brow furrowed. "A year and a half? And that was only to ask me for the two thousand dollars I owed him. I assume he's received it since then."

"Dollars?"

"Ay, si. The bastard landed himself a permanent work visa in los Estados Unidos. That what happens when you're so good at what you do that Vincent López takes notice. I, of course, got left behind. They only wanted the songwriter. You needn't worry about him. He's been wildly successful. Rumor has it that he ghostwrote The Way You Look Tonight. Have you heard it?"

She had not heard it, of course. She didn't speak Ingles, and unbeknownst to him, had banished all music from her life anyhow.

But that didn't salve the sting of Ernesto's words.

He could tell from the hurt in her eyes that she was buying it. But he also knew he needed more. She wasn't like Hector. She wouldn't take hogwash at face value from people she loved and trusted, let alone anyone else.

"Here, I have something for you," Ernesto grumbled. Then he reached into his suitcase and retrieved a record in a sleeve. The cover was a photograph of Hector and Ernesto together. The original photo was taken as part of a publicity shoot only three days before Hector's demise. This record cover had been custom made five years later, in anticipation of this exact moment. It was faded and weathered, corners crumpled.

But the title of the album, "Recuerdame," was clear as day. As were the words, "1928" "Hector Rivera" "Ernesto de la Cruz" and the esteemed record label's logo.

Now she knew. Her husband was alive and well. He was sharing his music with the world. And he was happy.

Without her.

"Go ahead and take it," Ernesto encouraged, sliding the envelope into her calloused palms. "It's one of the first copies printed. Maybe Coco would like to hear her Papa's voice one last time?"

Ernesto held back a smile as she followed his plan by taking the record out of the sleeve and striking him over the head with it, cracking it clear down the center. Then she threw the sleeve down at his feet and ran away.

His problems were finally behind him. Forever.