In case you haven't picked up on this fact yet, I'm using musical terms to name the chapters for this story. The first chapter was called "overture," which is the instrumental introduction for an opera. The second chapter was "estinto," which literally means extinct or extinguish. It is written on sheet music to indicate that the style for that section should be as soft as possible, lifeless, and barely audible.

"Legato" indicates that the notes should be smooth and almost run right into each other rather than clear and distinct articulation.

Look at that. All those years in band is paying off in unexpected ways.

Imelda led the agent inside, trying to resist her initial reaction and actually have an open mind. The woman was a guest. She needed to be hospitable rather than to jump to conclusions like her mind was already trying to do.

Helena followed her into the parlor and took the indicated seat. She seemed a little more comfortable as she set down her bundle of fabric than she did at the door. Imelda remained standing.

"How do you know Héctor?" asked Imelda.

She didn't mean for the accusatory tone to slip out. There was nothing to indicate that there was anything going on. Imelda forced herself to be objective. She was not going to make the same type of mistakes that led to decades of hatred and anger over crimes that he didn't commit.

But over ninety years of assuming the worst didn't make it easy for Imelda. And it was a very long time for him to be alone. Especially since Imelda did make it clear that she wanted nothing to do with the man. Multiple times. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he finally moved on when faced with her cold rejection.

And the agent was both young and beautiful. Certainly younger than Imelda, both chronologically and physically. Her short, smooth, black hair flattered her face nicely under her uniform's hat. And the red, yellow, and orange facial markings made her look warm and friendly. The twin sun patterns on her jaw and the large orange dots that encircled her eyes sockets were especially lovely. There was no denying the fact that Helena López was a beautiful young woman, the sort that could catch the eye of any man.

But there was no proof or even any indication that Héctor would have… And even if he did, what right did Imelda have to complain? She surrendered any claim to him when she refused to even let him approach her for decades. Or even when her actions in life left him on the Final Death's doorstep.

"I suppose I can't really say that I know him. Not really. But everyone who works at the Marigold Grand Central Station at least knows of him. Agents, security guards, and even the clerks. Héctor is infamous," Helena said. "You see, every year for a little less than a century, Héctor has tried to cross the bridge. But he never has a foto on any ofrenda, so he isn't allowed to cross it. But that doesn't seem to matter to him. And so every year, he tries new and creative methods of trying to cheat and con his way across anyway. Several of my coworkers try to predict what his next attempt might be." She smiled briefly at a memory, almost wistful. "My first year was the one where he disguised himself as an alebrije. There was a trail of paint everywhere." Then her expression became slightly more solemn. "But his attempts in the last decades have been more desperate."

The jealousy and suspicion that had tried to rise up were promptly crushed by her explanation, pulling Imelda towards more important thoughts. He never stopped trying to come home. Imelda took a shaking breath as she realized exactly what Helena was saying. Héctor never stopped trying to make it back home. Even when he knew it was impossible, he kept trying. First, he tried to reach both of them. And once Imelda passed, he still tried to reach their daughter.

Héctor never gave up trying to make it back to them. He never stopped loving his family and wanting to see them again.

"I eventually grew curious about why he kept trying," she continued. "So I went digging into some files that I'm technically not supposed to access. It took a while. He's actually got a pretty impressive record thanks to all his attempts. But I eventually found a reference to a very loud confrontation between him and a certain Imelda Rivera. A rather one-sided confrontation."

If she had any flesh left, Imelda would be blushing. She knew exactly what Helena was talking about. That very public outburst at Héctor was not her proudest moment. It was also the first time that she'd seen him since Héctor left home. There had been a lot of fury at the man involved and she had not been subtle about her feelings at all. Which explained the record that Helena mentioned.

"Finding information on you and your family was slightly easier. Especially since your files were more up-to-date since you cross every Día de Muertos. I… figured out the connection between the two of you. Héctor was once your husband and he was trying to see your daughter. Am I right?"

"Sí," said Imelda quietly.

Helena shook her head and said, "I wished he could have crossed the bridge, that there was a loophole he could use. I did some research over the years, trying to see if there was any other way he could make it. Something older than the current systems. Before photography, there were other ways to represent the dead family members on ofrendas. And the scanners are a relatively new addition, long after his arrival. They only helped streamline and speed up the process. But no matter how hard I looked, there was nothing that could be done for him. No foto on an ofrenda, no crossing the bridge."

It was hard to figure out exactly what Helena's relationship with Héctor might be. Imelda was relatively certain by now that she had no romantic intentions towards him. But Helena also admitted to not actually knowing him. She apparently saw him once a year and only in a professional setting. So it wasn't really a friendship either.

But she both sympathized with his situation and respected his determination. And she cared about his well-being enough to come look for him after last night.

"Watching his yearly attempts wasn't as entertaining when you understand why he did it. I wish I could say that any parent would do the same, but very few people would keep trying as long as he has. I started making sure that I would be working whatever line he was spotted heading towards. At least I tried to be kind about it and wouldn't laugh. But we could all tell that he was running out of time."

She smoothed out her uniform. Her smile was a bit sad now.

"Last night, he tried disguising himself as Frida Kahlo to get across. It wasn't exactly his most creative attempt. And when that didn't work, he made a run for it. He knew what the rest of us could clearly see. That he wouldn't be able to try again next year. When the security guards dragged him away, I fully expected him to keep coming back all night and trying different tricks."

"But he ran into Miguel instead," said Imelda.

Helena nodded and said, "So it would seem. I don't think anyone else in the audience realized that he was the Héctor mentioned at the Sunrise Spectacular since he was never shown on screen. Not even the other departure agents will figure it out because they won't realize the connection to you. Assuming that they recognized you on stage, of course." She shrugged slightly. "Not many people will believe any member of the Rivera family of shoemakers would sing on stage, let alone you. You have a bit of a reputation when it comes to both shoes and music. Most will assume that the singer just bears a strong resemblance to you."

So if anyone came looking for the real talent behind Ernesto de la Cruz, they wouldn't know where to start. Her family would have some peace for the moment. People might figure it out eventually and start prying; from what she understood, obsessed fans and paparazzi were like starving vultures and never gave up. But they would have some time before that happened. Imelda was thankful for that much.

"But since I've already admitted that returning the confiscated property was more of an excuse than anything, I suppose I should ask what I came to find out," said Helena, brushing her hair back slightly in a gesture that would have tucked it behind her ear when she was alive. "Señora Rivera, do you know what happened to Héctor? Is he…?"

A pang of worry and an overwhelming urge to return back upstairs to check on him coiling around her, Imelda said quietly, "He's… He hasn't been forgotten. Not yet. But he's… he's not doing well."

Helena's expression dropped at the news. But she didn't look surprised. She'd known the Final Death had been creeping up on him for a long time. Longer than Imelda had known. After a moment where she tried to school her features back into something professional and controlled, the agent stood up and straightened out her uniform.

"I understand. Then I won't take up any more of your time," she said with a short nod, her Customer Service expression firmly in place. "Thank you for telling me."

She started heading towards the door before Imelda could say a word. Everything in the young woman's body language stated how much Helena suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if she worried her presence wasn't wanted any longer. As if she felt as if she'd overstayed her welcome and didn't belong. And there was pity in her eyes. Pity for Héctor and pity for Imelda.

Imelda fought the urge to grit her teeth in response. She didn't want some strange woman's pity. She hadn't even accepted it from the neighbors she'd known her entire life. But the pity for Héctor… She would keep her silence and accept it on his behalf.

"I know it's a lot to ask," Helena said, pausing as she stepped out, "but if something should happen… I don't want to wait a year to find out if he'll ever try to cross the bridge again." She shook her head sadly. "It would be hard to imagine a Día de Muertos without Héctor showing up. Not all papás are as loyal and determined as him. I saw enough in life as a social worker to know that for a fact."

"We will let you know if anything happens," said Imelda. "And… thank you. For returning the dress. And for watching over him."

"I just wish I could have helped him."

As soon as she eased the door closed, Imelda hurried towards the stairs. She didn't run. She wasn't panicking as she realized how long she'd been gone. Imelda didn't panic. But if she moved faster than necessary and skipped a couple stairs, there was no one awake to witness it.

For once, Imelda felt grateful for the unnatural light coming from Héctor's bones. Even with the sunlight coming through the glass door, she caught a glimpse of the glow escaping from the room before she actually reached the doorway. Even before she saw him, she knew he was still where she left him. Héctor hadn't disappeared.

"I didn't mean to take so long," she murmured gently, slipping back into her chair.

She didn't expect him to hear her any more than she did earlier. Héctor looked exactly as before, lifeless and glowing. He hadn't improved even slightly. But he wasn't gone. And Imelda felt better talking to him as if he could hear her. It made it easier to ignore how wrong Héctor seemed in this state, so drastically different from his normal energetic self.

Imelda reached for his hand again, the bones still too cool and brittle in her gentle grip. She took a shaking breath. There was nothing she could do except wait and hope for the best. Imelda didn't like doing nothing. It was too similar to being powerless. And she refused to ever be powerless.

Not back when Imelda needed to find a way to support her family on her own. And certainly not now.

"But I can be patient," she said. "If you can wait all this time to see our daughter, then we can wait for you. We can wait. You just need to get better. Wherever the Final Death has tried to take you, you can't stay there. You need to get better, Héctor."

Even spoken quietly, her words had force and command behind them. It wasn't a request, but more of an order to him. She not-quite-begged the lifeless figure to do what she'd wanted from Héctor for ninety-six years: please find your way back.

Unspoken was the same plea that she'd spent countless nights whispering into their empty bed until that hope crumbled to dust under the harsh realization that she would never see him alive again.

I want you, I miss you…

Please come home.

Sleep came quickly due to weariness, but it wasn't the most restful slumber. The memories of the night before continued to tumble around Rosita's skull and she kept thinking about both Mamá Imelda and the long-estranged family member one floor down from her room. Only her general exhaustion from the stressful events from Día de Muertos ensured she slept at all.

But after a few hours of troubled sleep, the rest of the family began to stir again. They crept to the ground floor, not even daring to look at the door. No one wanted to risk disturbing Imelda. Not right now. Not after everything that happened. Instead, the Rivera family tried to keep their voices down and avoid the creaking floorboards.

They whispered among themselves around the table. They mostly discussed the events of their chaotic Día de Muertos. Like Miguel almost dying. Or the fact that Ernesto de la Cruz murdered Héctor decades ago and nearly did the same to Miguel last night. Or the fact that Mamá Imelda actually sang.

That last was probably the most shocking part of the entire night.

"She used to sing so beautifully," said Oscar softly. "She loved it. And—"

"—she would do it all the time," Felipe continued. "Not in front of a crowd like that, though. Never more than—"

"—a couple dozen people at most. And even then, she preferred smaller groups. Honestly—"

"—we always thought she might have a little stage fright when it comes to a big audience."

"Mamá Imelda? She wouldn't be afraid of anything," said Julio.

Crossing her arms and giving her papá a meaningful look, Victoria said, "Not even of performing for thousands of people with no warning and not having sang in almost a century? That might make anyone pause. Even Mamá Imelda."

"But she did it. She sang in front of everyone. And it was amazing," Rosita said, smiling at the memory of the beautiful song. "But I don't think she was really performing for the crowd, even while she tried to keep the foto from de la Cruz." Knowing that she was treading close to dangerous territory, Rosita paused briefly before adding, "I think Mamá Imelda was singing for him."

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. The topic of Héctor was still one that none of them were certain how to approach or if they were even allowed to broach it. For decades, no one could mention him. Not under Imelda's roof. They had all seen and inferred enough to know how much anger and hatred that Imelda felt towards the man.

And yet she sang on stage to protect his photograph, she held his hand in hers when they gave Miguel the blessing and she didn't immediately let go afterwards, and now she was sitting vigil at his bedside to see if Héctor would survive. Those were not the actions born from hate.

None of them knew what any of this meant. Had Imelda forgiven Héctor after all? If he ever woke up, would he be welcome in the household from now on? Was music allowed again?

"Back when she would sing, Imelda always seemed happiest when she sang with him," said Oscar slowly.

"And Héctor's music always sounded even better when he played for her," Felipe added.

Rosita smiled and said, "How sweet."

Other than the twins, none of them had met the man before last night. They'd only known what little Imelda would reveal. They knew that he was a musician who abandoned his family. It painted a very different impression from what they'd seen of Héctor. Everything about him made him seem like a good man who made a mistake, one that he was still paying for. Rosita could tell that he truly cared for Imelda and his family.

Perhaps it was merely Rosita's romantic streak making her see things that weren't there. Even though Rosita never found herself attracted to any of the men in Santa Cecilia (much to the increasing frustration of her mamá over the course of her life), she always enjoyed watching couples together. She was happy to see them happy together. And when her brother married a woman that he absolutely adored, Mamá Imelda welcomed her into the family and the business without hesitation. If anyone would believe that Rosita could have a happy life without finding a husband, it would be that woman. But Rosita had always wondered if all of Imelda's old feelings for the man who left her had transformed into hate.

Now it would seem she might finally have her answer. Rosita could tell that just as Héctor still cared for Imelda, she still felt something for him as well. And learning that he was murdered trying to come home wouldn't have created those feelings anew. It would merely give Imelda permission to acknowledge those emotions again.

The entire thing was so sweet and romantic if she thought about it right.

Except for the fact that Héctor was nearly forgotten and came so close to the Final Death that he ended up in a state unnervingly close to a dead version of a coma. And no one knew if he would ever wake up or would even survive. That was pure heart-breaking.

She hadn't seen many people suffer the Final Death, but Rosita had seen it a few times. Mostly in cases where one obscure family member in a large family managed to slip through the cracks, the living losing track of a distant cousin several generations back or a great-great-uncle who didn't survive childhood. People who still had relatives in death to care for them even as the living forgot. Those without anyone in life or death, those with no ofrendas and barely remembered, probably disappeared more often. But they usually hid away, so the Final Death was still a rare and frightening thing to witness for those more fondly remembered.

Rosita quietly hoped that this love story wouldn't end in tragedy before they had a chance to see if the relationship could be rekindled.

"It is growing a little late," said Victoria eventually. "Do you think we should check on Mamá Imelda?"

Ducking his head nervously, Julio said, "I don't think she would want to be disturbed."

"I'll go and see if I can talk to her," Rosita said. "Maybe she'll even get some rest."

"Good luck with that," said Felipe.

Rosita refused to let his comment nor her brother's nervousness dissuade her. Standing up from the table, she started gathering up a few items. A quilt from the linen closet. One of Victoria's books that she'd borrowed earlier and was halfway through. A bowl that she filled with warm water and a soft washcloth. And once she gathered her various articles, Rosita carried them upstairs.

"Mamá Imelda?" she called softly as she entered the room.

Then she paused. Rosita stared at the scene for a moment. Héctor remained exactly as he was before, limp and glowing with the unnatural light of the Final Death. But Mamá Imelda had managed to doze off in the chair by his side. She held his hand gently even in slumber. Once again, Rosita was hit by the sheer sweetness of it. The two of them must have been adorable when they were young, before Ernesto ruined everything.

She set everything down on the vanity. Then Rosita reached for Imelda's shoulder and shook her gently.

Imelda startled awake almost instantly, a brief flicker of panic in her eyes before she spotted Héctor in front of her. Only after she seemed reassured of his continued existence did she turn towards Rosita.

"You need to sleep, Mamá Imelda," she said with as much kindness as she could put into her words.

"I'm fine."

"I know you are. But you've been up all night too and we'll probably need to open the workshop tomorrow. We can't stay closed forever. So maybe you could get some proper sleep," Rosita said. "Please? I can keep him company for a while."

Her stubborn expression remained in place for a moment. Then Imelda softened slightly, her tiredness and worry slipping back into her expression. Rosita chose to risk and push a little more.

"You're welcome to my room, if you like. I can sit in here and read as you get some sleep," she said. "I wanted to finish this book soon and return it to Victoria anyway. I promise to let you know if anything changes."

Imelda slowly gave a reluctant nod, accepting the offer. She carefully released Héctor's hand and settled it back on the comforter. Then she stood up from the chair. The woman stepped over to her wardrobe and pulled out something made of a white flowing fabric, her nightgown.

"Thank you, Rosita. A short rest would probably be good for me," said Imelda softly. "Is everyone else all right?"

"Sí, Mamá Imelda. They're downstairs and should be fine on their own until morning. You don't need to worry about us. Just take care of yourself for now and get some sleep. Please?"

"I will, if only to keep you from worrying. I know how you are."

Remembering how she used to watch over and worry over little Elena and Victoria just as much as Coco did when they were children, Rosita couldn't argue. Even if she never married or had children of her own, she couldn't hide or deny her nurturing nature. Taking care of people was part of who Rosita was. Worrying over those she cared about wasn't something she could prevent.

Imelda paused briefly at the doorway, giving the figure in the bed one final look. Then she left, the stairs creaking as she climbed to the third floor. Rosita listened to the footsteps until Mamá Imelda reached the room and settled in. Once it grew silent again, Rosita reclaimed the bowl of water and sat down.

She'd seen Héctor the night before. And it wasn't just his dull yellow bones that made him look so grubby. It was hard to tell now that the glowing obscured most of the details, but she'd noticed how much dust and dirt had accumulated on his bones. Running all over the city with Miguel, not to mention the times he collapsed to the ground as his body spasmed with his approaching fate, left him rather coated by morning.

It wouldn't hurt to clean the worst of it off. It was the least that she could do for Héctor. She wanted to do something helpful. Besides, Rosita always felt better when she was clean after a warm bath.

Dipping the washcloth in the warm water briefly, Rosita reached over and gently ran it across his skull. Along his forehead, past his temples, and around his eyesockets, she used small and careful motions. She used the same technique she used occasionally when she babysat Coco's children and needed to give them a bath before bedtime, gentle and soothing. She focused briefly on cleaning around the bright facial markings, tracing each one with the washcloth before moving on to the next. Moving one hand to the back of his head to help steady him, Rosita moved down his cheekbones and then along his jaw. He never moved and never reacted to her efforts. But Rosita didn't let that deter her.

He died so young. That thought hit her as she rinsed off the washcloth. He must have been only a few years older than Abel back in the Land of the Living. It didn't seem fair. It wasn't fair that he died so young, that Imelda lost him and didn't know why, that none of them were able to get to know him before now, and that the Final Death tried to take him.

"But you'll be fine," she assured, wringing out the water. "The Final Death won't have you. You're safe."

Supporting his skull cautiously and lifting his body slightly off the pillow, she moved the washcloth down the vertebrae in his neck. Rosita worked carefully between each one. Then she pulled him up a little further, half nervous that his loosely-connected bones would scatter apart. Equal parts gentle and determined, she slowly tugged the ragged shirt off his frame without damaging it further. Then she dragged the washcloth along the rest of his exposed vertebrae and wiped along the back of his ribcage before settling Héctor back on the bed properly.

Avoiding the carefully-wrapped broken bones, she continued with the small circular motions. The rest of his rib cage, along his shoulders, and then down his arms.

"She still loves you, you know," Rosita said quietly. "Coco, I mean. She couldn't talk about you. None of us did. But if someone did bring up the topic, Mamá Imelda would get angry." As she spoke, she focused on rubbing the damp cloth along each bone in his hand. "Not Coco, though. She never got mad about you. She would seem sad and clearly missed you, but never angry. Not in all the years I knew her. No matter what happened, she still loves you. And when you wake up and she gets here, she can tell you so herself."

As she finished with his other hand, Rosita turned her attention to the worst of the mess: his feet. The poor man had been running around barefoot for who knows how long. The dirt must be completely ground into his bones by now, especially with all the nicks and small scratches she'd noticed on him that would be perfect for trapping grime. Not that she could risk actually scrubbing. She had to already be careful with his thicker bones, his body impossibly fragile currently. The smaller ones in the feet wouldn't survive rough handling. The last thing he needed was for her to shatter or crush his bones by accident.

The Final Death brought him to the brink of becoming dust. It wouldn't take much to push his body the rest of the way.

"We'll need to take care of this eventually," she said, the washcloth gently working the dirt off the glowing surface of his bones. "A Rivera without any shoes? That's just wrong. What kind of family would we be if we let this continue? One of our own without shoes is practically a crime."

Once she was satisfied that she'd done as much as she could, Rosita rinsed off the washcloth one final time. The water had cooled by now and looked rather murky. She couldn't imagine where Héctor had been to pick up so much dirt and dust. But at least he was cleaner than before, so Rosita felt a little better.

Setting the bowl aside, she picked up the quilt that she'd brought up and pulled it over the still figure. She tucked Héctor in the same way Mamá did when Rosita was a child. The fabric didn't completely block out the light radiating from his bones, but it did dim the glow. Then, taking a moment to fold his tattered shirt and making a mental note to see if they could salvage it at a later time, Rosita leaned back into the chair with the borrowed book.

He was as comfortable as she could make him and now it was time for her to settle in. She had a feeling it would be a long night.

So Imelda is finally getting some rest. Considering the fact that she's probably been awake since the day before and it was a very stressful evening, she needs some sleep. Thankfully, she has plenty of family to help keep an eye on things.

And next time, we'll get to check on the living family again briefly. Miguel still needs to find out how long he's grounded for.