All right, let's get started. Miguel still has to work out a few things with his family. He's got to find out how long he's grounded. And it is also time to directly address the decades of tradition that both he and Mamá Coco are trying to overturn. Wish them both luck.

By the time Miguel dragged himself groggily out of bed, the sun had moved most of the way across the sky. He wasn't exactly certain what his family talked about while he was sleeping, but he could tell that the topic had been something important. They couldn't exactly hide the overall mood as he wandered out of his room.

It wasn't going to be easy. He knew that. Even if Mamá Coco's reaction to the song managed to strike everyone dumb for a while, the issue of music would eventually come to the forefront again. Not to mention they would probably try to ask him more questions. Trying to figure out how to navigate through this mess was going to be next to impossible. He had an easier time sneaking into Ernesto de la Cruz's mansion.

But Miguel didn't really focus on that. He was practically starving by now. And he could smell Abuelita's tamales, his hunger gnawing at him.

He slipped into a chair next to Mamá Coco, noticing her distant expression brighten at his arrival. Not long after that, the rest of the family began to join them and dinner properly began.

"So how long am I grounded?" asked Miguel as Abuelita loaded up his plate with food.

"We've discussed it carefully, míjo," Papá said. "Two weeks seems fair. No television, no fútbol, definitely no visiting the plaza, and you will either be here or at school."

An idea sparking, Miguel asked, "What about the biblioteca?"

That earned him a few looks from everyone around the table. Miguel knew that he wasn't exactly a bookworm, so him asking to go there during his punishment was a bit unusual. But he was hoping that the idea of him reading and learning would be something his parents would want to encourage and they would agree to the exception. And not only were there probably some books that he could borrow that could be useful and maybe some old newspapers or something from the right time period, but there was also a large color copier that the librarians would allow people to use.

"Only for schoolwork and only if you let one of us know first," said Mamá finally.

Miguel nodded, accepting the terms without hesitation. He could work around those limitations for what he needed to do. And it was a minor miracle that his punishment wasn't worse. He would have expected a full month. At a minimum.

As Miguel took a few bites of dinner, Tío Berto said, "You know, there was some type of commotion in town today. The crypt of that musician with the statue? Señor Ernesto de la Cruz? Someone apparently broke in and stole one of his old belongings. Everyone is talking about it."

Only the fact that everyone was looking at Tío Berto with curious expressions kept them from noticing the way Miguel's eyes widened. He really didn't think the guitar thing through. Considering it was Ernesto's crypt, people were bound to notice when the beautiful instrument vanished overnight. How could he be so dumb?

But he wasn't taking it back.

"What did they take?" asked Papá.

"The man's guitar," Tío Berto said. "The one that hung in his crypt on the wall. Right under his portrait. The way they were talking, you would have thought someone stole the man's body from his resting place."

And after a brief pause, some of his family members started giving Miguel some strange looks again. None of them wanted to accuse him, but they were all wondering now. After all, they knew Miguel's homemade instrument had been destroyed the night before and he showed up with a new one the next morning. A professionally-crafted guitar that would have cost more than he could have afforded with his allowance.

"Where did you get that guitar?" asked Rosa, apparently willing to broach the subject when no one else would touch it.

"It's Papá's guitar," Mamá Coco said firmly. Her tone and the fact she could follow the conversation startled everyone into paying close attention. "I would recognize it anywhere. And you can see it in the foto. It is the same."

Smiling at her mamá, Abuelita said, "And that settles the matter."

Miguel smiled before taking another bite of his dinner. That was one problem dealt with. Even if everyone in Santa Cecilia came to their doorstep tomorrow and claimed the guitar belonged to Ernesto de la Cruz, Abuelita would send them running with a chancla to the head. She wouldn't let anyone upset Mamá Coco over the guitar.

"I missed hearing that guitar," Mamá Coco said, something close to cunning glittering in her eyes. "It always made me so happy. Miguel plays a lot like him. He knows so many of his songs."

"I'm glad you liked it, Mamá Coco," said Miguel.

"Can you play more of them after dinner?"

Oh, she was being clever. Apparently she was making up for a lifetime of keeping quiet to protect her treasured keepsakes of her father. She said she would help him and she was already starting with it.

He snuck a peek at the rest of the family. Watching everyone's shifting expressions at the idea of going against the music ban was almost hilarious. Almost. At least, it would be if the stakes weren't so important to him. No one knew what to do or say. Almost everyone at the table grew up under the ban. Change could be hard. But they wanted Mamá Coco happy and they would do almost anything to help her remain aware and remembering for a little longer.

But that might not be enough to convince them. Mamá Coco couldn't do this all by herself. Otherwise the music ban would have ended a long time ago. She needed support.

"Abuelita," he said carefully. "I know Mamá Imelda said no more music, but that was a long time ago. We can't blame music or Papá Héctor for everything and ignore all the good things about them. Not forever. We aren't protecting our family from making the same mistake that he did. Not by this point. We're doing it because that's what we've always done. No other reason. But forgetting and ignoring doesn't help. We're just taking something away from this family."

When he saw her conflicted expression, Papá Franco added gently, "Elena, mi amada. You remember when I asked to marry you? I knew that in order to join this family, I would have to give up music. I accepted that condition without regrets. I love you. I would always choose you. But I had the choice. I chose to live a life without music with you." He gestured at the family. "Our children? Our grandchildren? Even you? There was never a choice. That choice was taken at birth." Papá Franco smiled at her encouragingly. "Perhaps it is time this family regains that choice."

Abuelita looked at her husband. Then she turned to Miguel, his expression silently pleading. She looked at Mamá Coco, her eyes growing a little dim and distant as not even music could erase all the years at once. She turned towards Rosa and Abel, both of them trapped between uncertainty and an unexpected spark of hope.

"Mamá."

Miguel turned to see his papá giving her a look that he couldn't quite identify. For a moment, neither of them spoke a word. But there still seemed to be a lot of communication going on anyway. It caused both of the adults to briefly glance at Miguel with faintly guilty expressions before turning back towards each other.

His voice firm, Papá stared at her and simply said, "Please."

She remained steady for a moment longer, not responding even as a flurry of emotions flashed in her eyes. Finally, Abuelita sighed and slumped in her chair.

"Maybe it is time for a change," she said slowly. "Music can do more than just harm this family. After this morning, we can't deny that any longer. And it isn't fair to deny Mamá something that makes her so happy. Nor the rest of the family." Abuelta gave a small nod. "Sí, Miguel. You can play for her. We can have music in this house."

Hearing something that he'd wished for his entire life sent a jolt of shock and pure joy through Miguel like a bolt of lightning, sharp and intense. It took all the boy's willpower not to jump up from the table or try out an excited grito. He could be a musician. He could be a musician and his family would let him.

Imelda wasn't certain what she was doing down here. She vaguely knew that they had gone to the Land of the Living like normal for Día de Muertos, though she couldn't seem to remember any details about the visit. Only that Miguel seemed to be upset, hanging back from his family and barely looking at anyone while Coco seemed even more lost in her fading mind than last year. But no other details came to mind. Just like she didn't remember coming down to the lower levels of the city, a somber place for the ones on the verge of being forgotten.

Someone like her didn't belong in Shantytown. She was well-remembered, her descendants still running the same business she started decades ago and her picture always firmly in place on top of the ofrenda. The small ramshackle houses and the plank bridges across the still water belonged to those with no family and no hope. It was a dark, dank, and quiet place, not a single soul in sight during the early hour. Imelda couldn't think of any reason why she should come down here, especially before the break of dawn. Even with the distant lights of the city above to obscure things, she could tell that the sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon yet. Something about sunrise nagged at her, but not enough to make her remember anything specific.

Just as she found herself wandering through this forsaken place for reasons she couldn't recall, Imelda found herself drawn towards one of the half-collapsed buildings. She almost expected the door to fall off as she opened it with a rusty creak. Imelda stepped across the uneven floor, trying to see through the shadows.

Eventually her eyes adjusted enough for Imelda to make out a shape sprawled on the floor, making her freeze in surprise. Half on his side and his arms curled close to his limp body, Héctor looked like the picture of absolute misery. He wasn't even trying to push himself upright; he just remained motionless on the rough wood planks with a hopeless expression and dried tear tracks through the dust on his face. And now that she was listening for it, she could hear a familiar tune being hummed. A song she'd heard Coco singing at night during her childhood, her daughter still hoping for his return. The sound was weak and choked by clear sorrow, but still recognizable.

She should be happy about Héctor looking so upset, but something in Imelda felt like it was breaking at the sight. She tried to push that down. He deserved to be lonely and miserable on Día de Muertos. If he couldn't stay with his family in life, then he didn't get them in death. Imelda refused to waste any more time on the man. She should turn around and leave before he noticed her presence. Otherwise—

A golden light shimmered across Héctor's body, cutting off her previous thoughts and leaving him shaking weakly until it passed. Imelda found herself kneeling beside him before she even realized that she'd moved.

He was being forgotten. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. She reached out a shaking hand towards him.

"Héctor?" she called quietly.

He didn't react to her words, staring blankly and gasping weakly. And when she tried to take his hand, she passed right through him like smoke. She wasn't really there. She should question it, but all she could focus on was fading skeleton.

"Lo siento," mumbled Héctor. "Lo siento."

"Hold on," she said, trying to take his hand even as it proved to be futile. "You're going to be all right. I'm here."

He kept whispering apologies even as he struggled to breathe through the exhaustion, unable to see, hear, or feel her presence. Even as she tried to run her hand through his hair as she used to, it did no good. For all practical purposes, Héctor was alone.

Alone and being forgotten. He was dying, alone and unwanted.

No, no, no. Panic fluttered in her empty ribcage. She didn't want this. She didn't want him to be forgotten. Imelda tried to cup his face, but it didn't work any better than his hand. She wasn't really there.

She couldn't stop this. She couldn't help him. She was utterly powerless.

"Just hold on, Héctor," she urged. "I'm here. Hold on a little longer. Miguel will…"

Her voice trailed off. Why did she mention that boy? He couldn't do anything. He didn't know about Héctor. No one knew anything about the man anymore. Only her precious daughter remembered Héctor.

But not much longer. The golden light seized his bones again, the spasms leaving Héctor even weaker than before. He couldn't even open his eyes, his breathing reduced to ragged and shaking gasps. The sight was enough to leave her chest tight and her own breathing unsteady.

This wasn't right. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be forgotten.

No matter what he did, he didn't deserve this.

But he was fading. He was slipping away. He was dying again.

She never wanted this.

"Don't you dare," she said. "Don't you dare leave me again."

Deaf to her words, Héctor whispered, "Lo siento… I tried, Coco… I wanted… to see you… one more…"

He stopped, panting from the effort to make his final apologies to someone who wasn't even present to hear them. He was too weak. He was slipping away too fast.

Her face felt wet, but Imelda ignored it. She couldn't let this happen. There had to be a way to stop this. She couldn't watch it. It couldn't end for him like this.

Alone. Abandoned. Unable to move. Lying on the floor of a semi-collapsed shack in Shantytown.

"I tried… Lo siento… Lo siento, Coco…"

"I know you are, Héctor. I know," Imelda said, her voice cracking. "I'm here. Just hold on."

Her chest felt like her ribs were in a vice, the crushing sensation almost choking her. It wasn't right. This couldn't be happening. And as he slipped into unconsciousness, her panic and horror practically tripled.

No, no, no. Imelda kept grabbing uselessly at his hand, his shoulder, and anything else she could reach. She kept passing right through him. She couldn't reach him. She couldn't stop this.

"Héctor," she called desperately. "Please, don't do this. Stay with me. Do you hear me? Héctor!"

But he couldn't stop this any more than she could. This was out of their hands. It was Coco's memory that would decide his fate. A memory that was disappearing quickly.

Imelda was powerless.

The golden-orange light struck again. But not as a sudden attack that shook his body like before. A steady glow overtook his bones before her eyes.

"No, no, no," she pleaded. "Not yet. Héctor. Héctor!"

But it was no use. Brittle bones gave way to the inevitable. Her chest hitched as Héctor's body collapsed into dust, surrendering to the Final Death before her eyes.

No. This couldn't…

Horrified sobs tore their way out of her, her body shaking. The sun breaking over the horizon and shining through the door made it impossible to deny what happened.

Héctor… He was…

He was gone.

No.

Her head dropped, Imelda curling around herself.

He couldn't be…

No. No.

No.

Imelda sat up suddenly, choking on sobs that shook her almost as sharply as the Final Death itself. She struggled to slow her breathing while fighting through her disorientation. For a moment, she couldn't recognize the darkened room with the strange belongings and the comforter with far more pink than her own. But she slowly remembered she was in Rosita's room. And she remembered what happened before.

Wiping at her face as she flung herself out of bed, she found herself hurrying down the stairs as quickly and silently as possible. Phantoms of the nightmare chased after her. She had to see. He had to be certain.

Imelda came to a stop at the doorway of her room, still shaking as she looked inside. Héctor was still there, glowing almost as brightly as the oil lamp on her bedside table. Rosita had dozed off in the chair, her book resting on her lap. But she kept a hand on his shoulder, which should awaken her if he moved… or disappeared.

Everything was peaceful and calm.

Héctor was safe. He wasn't… He hadn't…

She reached out, bracing herself against the wall. If she'd still possessed a heartbeat, it would still be pounding from that nightmare. It was too intense. Too close to coming true.

Air. She needed fresh air. Imelda barely noticed her bare feet moving until she slipped out the front door. A cool breeze stirred her hair and felt comforting against her skull, waking her up and helping to banish some of the nightmare's effects.

A green glow announced Pepita's presence right before the large alebrije nudged her with her head. Imelda leaned into the contact, burying her face into the colorful fur and feathers. The loud purring rumbled through her bones, the feline-avian hybrid curling around her protectively. And while she would never crumble in front of anyone, Imelda broke for just a moment and cried into Pepita's fur.

It could have happened. That's what scared her so much about the nightmare. If Miguel didn't end up cursed or if she managed to send him home immediately, then Héctor would have probably spent the whole night trying to cross the bridge like Helena mentioned. And since Miguel wouldn't know that Coco needed to remember her papá, he wouldn't be able to help. Héctor wouldn't have survived. He would have suffered the Final Death and he wouldn't have been saved at the last moment.

He would have died and she wouldn't have known. That thought made her shake, causing Pepita to purr louder and nuzzle the woman. That's what almost happened. Without Miguel, it would have been so different. Héctor would have disappeared, alone and abandoned. And it would have been her fault. The Final Death would have been her fault.

And she wouldn't have known. She wouldn't have known that he was murdered trying to come home. She wouldn't have known that he spent his entire afterlife trying to make it back to his family. And she wouldn't have known he was gone.

He came so close. Once again, Héctor would have died and she would have remained ignorant of his fate. She wouldn't have even spared the man a thought.

Héctor wouldn't have let her know what was happening. Imelda dug her fingers into Pepita's fur. If it wasn't for their great-great-grandson stealing that guitar, Imelda would have never known he was being forgotten. Héctor wouldn't have come to say his final farewell. Not that she would have let him get a word out even if he tried. Imelda choked back another sob. No matter how complicated her feelings for Héctor might still be, the thought of how easily Héctor could have died in the exact same scenario as her nightmare broke her heart.

She wept silently into Pepita's fur, letting the cool night air and the rumbling purr slowly calm her. The alebrije remained steady and didn't judge her moment of weakness. Pepita simply waited for her. After a while, Imelda relaxed enough to pull back.

Pepita nudged her once more, but Imelda was already putting the pieces back together. Her calm control settled back into place.

She was fine. Tired. She was just tired. That's why she reacted so strongly to a dream. She was fine.

No matter how close he might have come, Héctor didn't disappear yesterday morning. He didn't die alone in Shantytown, abandoned and forgotten.

Yes, he was still on the verge of the Final Death. Yes, she had no guarantees that he would survive much longer. Yes, there was absolutely nothing that she could do to help him and that powerlessness still hurt. But he wouldn't be alone. His family would be with him, no matter what happened.

She slipped back inside the darkened house, her bare feet ghosting across the floor and her white nightgown shifting against her legs. She knew every creaky floorboard and avoided them without thought. Imelda didn't make a single sound as she headed back up the stairs.

Imelda paused again at the doorway. Nothing had changed. Héctor didn't look any better.

But he wasn't gone. He wasn't dust. There was still hope.

"Don't you dare leave me," she said from the across the room, barely breathing the words. "Not again. You have to get better."

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her emotions again. Then, giving the motionless glowing figure in the bed one more look and reassuring herself that he was still there, Imelda headed back towards Rosita's room.

A bit of a shorter chapter, but it was the most logical place to stop. While things are improving for Miguel back home, Imelda is dealing with the emotional fallout of the last twenty-four hours or so. Lots of guilt and regret and a delayed reaction to how close Héctor came to dying.

"Forte piano" literally translates as "strong-gentle," but it basically means to hit a note hard and loud initially before immediately going soft.