So after the cliffhanger of the last chapter, I bet you're all assuming that things should be smooth sailing from here, right? Yeah, the story isn't over yet. Just because Héctor is finally reacting doesn't mean that he's back to normal.

It hurt. It hurt so much. He could barely comprehend it.

He was trapped in an exhausted and battered body that seemed to rebel against the very concept of existing. His bones felt like they were shattering and crumbling apart from the inside, like they'd been reduced to dust deep down. The surface of his bones felt raw and overly-sensitive, as if someone scraped his entire body with sandpaper. And his joints felt too tight and stiff, practically on the verge of snapping. They felt like some force was crushing them together, trapping him and leaving them immobile. Not that he had the strength to try and move, but that didn't make it any easier.

Agony. Absolute agony like—

—As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection (it hurt, make it stop, make it stop), but there was nothing there hurting him.

His friend (no, no, no) placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain—

—He'd fallen, tumbling into separate pieces to prevent injuries. But his bones scattered further than expected. One of his ribs, a floating rib that belonged at the bottom of his ribcage, bounced right into the path (no, no, no) of a trolley. A sickening crunch (it hurt, it hurt, please, no) and agony swept through his disjointed part as he screamed. It wasn't just a break (pain, so much pain) like in the past. The trolley crushed it to splinters and dust. Worried voices called out to him, but (it hurt, make it stop) he could only focus on the waves of agony—

—Someone was talking. Distant and muffled, but he could hear the sound. He couldn't understand the words. Consciousness, real and true consciousness, remained too far out of his reach.

He tried to focus on the voice. Or voices. So familiar and so similar to each other. He tried to focus on the sound. He tried to focus on anything other than the exhausting pain that seemed to consume him. The pain and the uncomfortable, semi-panicking, and instinctive wrong sensation. As if his barely-intact body needed to do something desperately, but he couldn't remember what it was—

—He was too small and too young (help, please help) to fight the current. He wasn't supposed to go near the river. None of them were, no matter how fun his friend made it sound with the suggestion. The fact that he tumbled down the bank proved why they weren't supposed to be there. Even worse, he didn't know how to swim yet. He couldn't keep his head above the water.

He tried to call for help, but kept choking and coughing (air, need air) as liquid filled his mouth. He tried to spot his friend up on the bank somewhere, but he kept slipping below the surface. He couldn't hear anything other than the rushing and splashing water.

His chest burned as his panicked mind scrambled desperately. It was getting harder (cold, tired, need air) to struggle against the river. His body kept sinking and his short arms and legs weren't enough to keep afloat.

He tried to cough out the water from his lungs (air, please, help, need air), but more and more kept flowing down his throat. His limbs grew still (too heavy, too tired) while his mind grew dull, unable to reach the surface at all anymore.

A loud splash of something large landed right next to him. It wrapped around his middle, firm and solid, dragging him towards the surface and the shore. Coughing and vomiting up the choking liquid as his friend's panicked voice filled his ears, he gasped desperately for the air—

—He needed to do something. His body hurt so much and felt so tired, but the impulse remained. A familiar and instinctive impulse.

He couldn't escape the agony that consumed every bone in his body, but there had to be a way to ease the semi-panicked need to act.

"Héctor?" called Felipe, reaching for the opposite arm of the one Oscar held. "You all right? Can you hear us?"

"I don't think he's awake," Oscar said.

"But something is definitely happening."

"And I don't think he's very comfortable."

Oscar was right. While it was reassuring to see any sign of life from Héctor, they couldn't ignore the clear signs of distress. His face was strained and his body tensed. Something was wrong.

"Can you hear us, Héctor?" Oscar called gently. "Hey, I don't know if it'll help much, but you should really—"

"—try breathing," said Felipe, realizing where his thoughts were going. "We might not need it, but it'll make you feel better. Trust us."

Not long after they ended up in the Land of the Dead, Oscar and Felipe experimented quite a bit. Testing their limits and so on. After all, it wasn't like they could get killed. Though Imelda eventually ran out of patience, put her foot down, and said no more. They weren't technically allowed to disassemble themselves or do dangerous stunts unless it was an emergency. Which was the one good thing about sneaking into the Sunrise Spectacular because they'd been waiting decades for a chance to try their stunt they used against Ernesto's security.

Somewhere between seeing how far they could pull a detached limb back from and seeing how weird it felt to get their bones switched (which was stranger than when they switched their clothing), the two of them tested how long they could stay underwater. It seemed like an interesting idea at the time. They couldn't drown, but the uncomfortable and panicking sensation from not breathing made the whole experience unpleasant. They might not need to breathe, but their bodies tended to react badly to being denied the chance.

Apparently survival instincts remained even when they no longer serve any purpose.

Maybe that was all that was wrong. Maybe if Héctor started breathing, the tension in his body would ease. It was all Felipe could think of to do at the moment.

"I know you're tired," Oscar said gently. "But listen to us, Héctor. You need—"

"—to start breathing again. It'll make you—"

"—feel better. Just focus on what we're saying. Breathe in—"

"—and then out. Nice and steady. You can do it."

Holding onto his arms as tightly as they dared, the two of them tried to coax their brother-in-law to do something that should be happening naturally. Imelda was depending on them to take care of everything while she was gone. They couldn't let her and Héctor down. They had to find a way to help the man.

Felipe wasn't certain if it was luck or if their words were getting through to him, but he saw the moment when things improved further. Héctor's ribcage shifted slightly under the quilt, the unconscious skeleton finally taking a weak and shallow breath. The twins exchanged quick grins at the success.

But their smiles vanished as they heard the breathing fall into unsteady panting. And then a small sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, slipped out. It wasn't just the discomfort of not breathing. Even unconscious, Héctor was in real pain.

The unease and desperate panic had relented, but it didn't solve everything. It didn't help with the pain.

Everything that touched his body hurt. Something covered most of his bones, the painfully-sensitive surface crying out against the weight and the contact. Something or someone held onto his arms, even the gentle pressure agonizingly tight. And as he tried to handle the pain that practically burned across the surface, the sharp brokenness that reached down to the marrow pushed it too far.

It hurt. It hurt more than he could bear—

— She closed her eyes, still smiling (how was she so content, how could she be at peace, it wasn't fair, it was too soon) as the golden-orange light washed over her. And she allowed it. Tía let her bones dissolve (it's not supposed to hurt as much if you don't fight it) into dust and drift away—

— Then he felt something cold and sharp wash over him (no, not yet, I can't) and his breathing hitched. He could barely (don't fall on Chamaco, don't hurt him, move, move) push himself away before he lost complete control of his shaking limbs. He stumbled and fell back onto the stones, lost in golden light that tried to engulf him as he tried (it hurts, hold on, it'll pass, but it hurts) to keep himself together. His strength fell away and the brief episode passed as suddenly as it struck, leaving him weak and sore. And his final stubborn and desperate hope crumbled—

—He would be screaming. If he was truly awake and if he had the strength, he would be screaming from the pain. He desperately wanted it to stop. Please make it stop—

— The sharp, cold, and intense sensation (not again, it hurts, it's worse, make it stop) swept over him again in a golden light (hold on, not yet, I can't let go yet) and he crumbled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. His breath caught in his ribcage as his body briefly spasmed. As the glow faded from his bones, leaving him on his hands and knees and too wobbly to get back up yet (I'm running out of time), the boy knelt beside him with a worried expression—

—He didn't want a body. He didn't want to exist. It hurt everywhere. The nothingness didn't have pain.

Those who remembered him anchored him to reality, pulling him out of the nothing and making him stay. They made him exist. They made returned him to his barely-intact body. But it hurt more than he could handle.

If he couldn't return to the numbness of nonexistence, could he at least slip from semi-consciousness into true unconsciousness? That might at least let him escape the pain wracking his exhausted bones.

"What are we going to do?" asked Oscar, trying to ignore the quiet whimpers, the pained gasps, and the tension in Héctor's body. He was worried enough already. "We have to help him."

"How?" Felipe asked.

The twins exchanged looks, their thoughts racing. The small sounds of distress made something in their empty ribcages twist uncomfortably. They couldn't leave their brother-in-law in this condition. They needed to fix it.

Oscar's gaze twitched briefly to the bedside table, catching a glimpse of the glass bottle. The bottle that Dr. García left behind, the one they heard him describe as something to help with pain. Oscar grabbed it, the liquid sloshing inside from the abrupt motion.

"Getting him to drink a spoonful or however much isn't going to be easy while he's unconscious," Felipe said as his twin read the handwritten instructions carefully.

"Head down to the kitchen and find a glass," suggested Oscar. "We can measure it out in that. Less chance of spilling it. And it's not like taking too much would kill him."

Eating and drinking didn't make much logical sense for skeletons. The dead didn't have stomachs or even throats. It should fall out whenever anything goes in their mouth. It should land on the ground below whenever they try. And yet they could eat and drink like they did in life, the food or liquid vanishing after it went in their mouth. And it was absolutely possible to get drunk somehow. It didn't make much logical sense, but it disappeared as they swallowed and they would feel a sense of fullness where their guts used to be.

If they could get the medicine into his mouth, then Héctor should be fine.

Felipe nodded and took off running down the stairs. Thankfully, most of the family wasn't in the house and the racing footsteps wouldn't be enough to disturb Victoria sleeping upstairs. More panicked and worried family members wouldn't help the situation at all. Felipe would get what they needed and they would sort things out.

"It's all right, Héctor," Oscar said quietly. "We'll give you some medicine and you'll feel better."

The only response that he received was the soft pained sounds and weak gasps. Héctor's body looked rigid and uncomfortable. If he still possessed muscles, Oscar knew they would be straining and tensed. Maybe it was for the best that Héctor wasn't actually awake. If his fingers were already digging into the quilt, Oscar could only imagine how bad it would be if he was conscious.

"I know it hurts. I know," he said, trying to sooth the skeleton the best that he could. "The medicine will help. And Imelda will be back soon. It'll be all right."

"Got it," called Felipe as he ran back in, a small glass in his hand.

Everything kept shifting chaotically, bleeding together until he couldn't separate them. But no matter which was real and which were memories, the pain remained constant. Constant and intense—

—They kept him across the room from his detached limb, a couple of primos holding him in place. He tried to keep still, but each time the short and grumpy skeleton tried to line up (it hurt, stop, please stop) the bone fragments, a new spike (no, it hurts, no, no) of pain shot through his leg. He couldn't stop from flinching and yelping, instinctively struggling to get away from what was hurting him.

Gruff words of reassurance as his leg was bound (won't heal, nearly forgotten, arm still cracked) came from his grumpy friend while the primos comforted him as much as possible. With enough duct tape to stabilize the injury (an accident, part of one of the shanties collapsed, at least the beam landed on me instead of Prima, they'll have to fix her house later), he should be able to walk. Maybe it would even dull to a more tolerable ache instead of the sharp pain eventually.

And he needed to be able to walk (I want to go home, I want to see míja, I have to make it) if he wanted to cross the bridge in a few months.

Another jolt of pain made him nearly jerk out of their grip, biting back a string of sharp words—

—Please let it stop. He needed it to stop. The pain was too much.

He was so tired. And it hurt so much. He didn't care how it stopped. Nonexistence would be a kindness. The silent, empty numbness that memories pulled him back from would be better. Anything to stop the pain.

Something pressed against him mouth, a familiar shape—

— But while clearly disappointed, his best friend seemed to understand. The man offered him a toast (don't touch it, don't drink it, don't drink it) to show that there were no hard feelings. He accepted the shot glass (no, don't, no, no, don't drink) and the soft clink of glass followed his friend's words. And with that, he brought the glass to his mouth and (no, no, no) swallowed the tequila, relieved that their friendship remained intact—

—No, no, no!

Panic rejoined the pain. He needed to go home. He needed to see his girls.

Don't drink it. He couldn't drink it—

— He could almost ignore the way his stomach seemed unsettled and uncomfortable with guilt (with poison) and how he kept having to swallow.

As he caught sight of the train station, the discomfort abruptly spiked into pain. He doubled over in agony, something burning and sharp slicing into him. He felt like fire and knives were trying to rip him apart from the inside out. He grabbed at his midsection (it hurt, make it stop, make it stop), but there was nothing there hurting him.

His friend (no, no, no) placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke of food being to blame, taking the guitar case from him and freeing his hand to instinctively dig at the burning, sharp pain. His head pounded with an unsteady rhythm, his ears filled with his loud heartbeat and a dull roar. His fingers tingled strangely as he clenched the fabric of his clothes, but the pain overwhelmed everything else. It seemed to sweep over him in sickening waves as he struggled to get control over the sensation, gasping against the agony.

His vision blurred, the edges going dark. The burning and sharp pain kept growing worse, agonizingly intense. He fell to his knees as he lost his hold on his suitcase. And as the pain reached an unbearable state (make it stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, I want to go home, make it stop, stop, stop), he—

—No!

Pain, panic, and desperation fought for dominance.

There were voices and hands, the contact agonizing as they supported his skull and tried to force open his jaw. He didn't have the strength to fight back, to escape, or to even wake into full consciousness. But no matter how exhausted he was or how much pain ravaged his body, he couldn't drink it. He couldn't drink it.

He needed to go home. He promised. He just wanted to go home.

Don't drink it.

"Héctor, you have to drink," urged Felipe "Can you hear us?"

While they'd already known that his body was rigid and tense, they didn't expect his jaw to lock closed when they brought the glass to his mouth. They didn't even think he had the strength to clench them so tightly, not after everything that happened. Now Héctor's gasps came out as frantic and pained hisses between his teeth. The sound was not even a slight improvement.

And while Oscar supported his skull enough to raise to angle it make the process easier and Felipe tried to press the glass of the reddish-brown liquid they'd measured out to his mouth, neither of them could force him to drink. Not without risking injury. His bones were still fragile and cracking his jaw in the attempt would only make things worse.

"Please, Héctor," Oscar coaxed desperately. "Just drink a little. You need to let us help you. We—"

"—don't want to see you in pain," said Felipe.

How were they supposed to fix this? Héctor was hurting and they couldn't get him to open his mouth. They couldn't give him the medicine to make him feel better. Unless he let them, they couldn't help.

Why did this happen while they were watching over their brother-in-law and Imelda was gone? They desperately needed her now. She would know how to help Héctor.

"Come on," Oscar continued. "We don't—"

"—know what else to do. Please—"

"—open your mouth. Just a crack."

The distressed and pained sound wasn't much of a response. It was too tired and pitiful to belong to the young man who used to tease and encourage their wilder tendencies as children, helping to earn their approval of the músico interested in their sister. It just felt wrong. The pain wasn't alone; there was also a hint of fear in the sounds. Felipe suspected that if Héctor was awake and had the strength, he would be struggling against them.

They wanted to make it stop. They wanted to help him. They hated seeing anyone like this, let alone someone that they knew. And especially someone who was once and might still be family.

"Please, Héctor," said Felipe. "Please drink this."

Her mind felt like it was in a haze as Imelda reached home. She knew that she should check on things in the workshop, that she still had a business to run even if the rest of the family could handle the daily aspects without supervision.

But with Ernesto's words still ringing in her mind, Imelda couldn't even start to think about shoes. She didn't know if she would ever be able to forget the vivid picture that he painted. The initial anger had transformed into horror during the trip back. Despite her best efforts, his description of Héctor's murder continued to haunt her.

She stepped into the house instead of the workshop, trying to reclaim a sense of stability and calm. She wouldn't let lying murderer ruin or corrupt anything else. He would not pollute this home with his selfish and cowardly remarks. The house and workshop were places of security, control, and familiar comfort. He couldn't not touch it. She refused to think about him any longer that day. Ernesto de la Cruz and his vile actions had no place within these walls.

This was their home. This was where her family lived. It was safe. They were safe. He couldn't harm anyone she loved within this place. Never again.

As Imelda started heading upstairs, feeling some of the tension melting away the more she pushed the man from her thoughts, part of her contemplated the idea of a short nap. It wasn't a normal impulse for her, no matter how worn out she might become during the day. Resting while others worked went against her nature. But if she caught up on some sleep, then she could keep watch over Héctor that night. The rest of the family shouldn't have to keep staying up so late. A short nap might help her enough that she could take over the task.

When her foot hit the top stair, Imelda froze. All the instincts that she'd honed through her experiences as a mamá shrieked at her. Something was wrong.

It took a moment for her to see the change. But when she did, it sent a terrifying chill all the way down to her marrow.

The glowing light was no longer coming from her room.

No. Please, no.

Panic fluttered in her chest as she lunged towards the doorway, thoughts of an empty bed and fading memories filling her mind. But her fears proved unfounded as she glimpsed the room.

Though the truth wasn't completely comforting either.

Her brothers knelt beside her bed, completely focused on the unconscious skeleton still tucked in. Even at their current angle, Imelda could see their identical expressions of worry. While Oscar supported Héctor's skull, Felipe held a glass of reddish-brown liquid to his brother-in-law's mouth. Both of them were whispering and pleading.

As for Héctor, the light from his bones had dimmed until it could be easily ignored. And he no longer looked completely limp and lifeless. Now, tension filled every joint to the point that she fully expected something to snap. His expression had shifted to something strained by pain.

And he was breathing. He was breathing again.

She should have been relieved by that fact, but the tiny sounds of pain hit her hard. He shouldn't be making those sounds. He wouldn't let those weak and heart-breaking sounds escape if he was awake. Not out of machismo or anything like that. She knew him better than that. He just wouldn't want to worry those around him. She never wanted to hear Héctor hissing and whimpering with so much distressed pain.

"Héctor, please open your mouth," Felipe pleaded. "The medicine will help."

For a moment, Imelda didn't see the skeleton lying on her bed. She saw the scene that Ernesto described so recently. She saw her husband collapsing in the street in agony, betrayed and abandoned by his closest friend. She saw Héctor dying alone in a strange city and far away from anyone who cared for him.

Then she blinked and the image vanished. But she still saw Héctor, unconscious and in pain. And Imelda… Rational thought didn't even have a chance to surface before she instinctively reacted.

Oscar and Felipe yelped in surprise and scrambled back as she moved past them, her brothers not even noticing her presence until that moment. Imelda sat on the edge of the bed and carefully pulled Héctor up until he leaned against her, his head resting against her sternum. She wrapped one arm around to support his stiff figure while gently brushing his hair from his face with her free hand.

"Shhh… It's all right," she said softly. "Cálmese. You're safe. You're safe, Héctor. Cálmese. Shhh… I know it hurts. I know. But we're here. We want to help. We're here. You're safe. You're home. It's all right. Cálmese."

She didn't even think about what she was saying. Imelda just kept up a constant stream of reassuring words as she felt his ribs shifting beneath her fingers, his breathing too uneven and desperate. She just kept talking and trying to drown out the sounds of distress with her voice.

The hands that kept touching and holding him hurt. All contact hurt at that moment. And when they pulled him upright, agony jolted through every bone. Movement made everything worse.

And it only made his panic escalate. He was going to come apart. He could feel it. He was going to come apart.

Then words… Gentle, soothing, familiar… He couldn't make out the words, but the voice washed over him in a constant stream, soft and warm. He knew that voice—

—His fingers fumbled, the tune stumbling from the beat and his friend glared at the interruption. It might only be practice, but the older boy didn't appreciate the mistake. Not in such a public place. But he couldn't help it. Something snagged his focus away and he couldn't resist the pull.

Someone started singing softly to the music and the sound sent a shiver of awe through him. The voice (beautiful, breath-taking, warm, joyful) was mesmerizing. For a moment, he couldn't even move. It reminded him of the first time he wandered down to the plaza on tiny legs and heard someone really play the guitar, as if he found something he'd been missing for his entire life and could finally fill that empty gap.

His eyes moved across the plaza, searching for the source. It had to be close. It took a moment, but then he saw her.

A girl (pretty, graceful, smiling) moved through the crowd, twin toddlers holding onto her hands as she followed after her mother. Her dress looked more expensive than any of the clothes found at the Orfanato de la Cruz, including those saved for church. And she wore ribbons in her hair, the light catching the bright colors and making her dark hair even more lovely. His best friend was older and liked looking at señoritas, but he never noticed them much. Until now. He couldn't help staring at her.

But when she noticed the music stopped, her wistful smile shifted to a frown of confusion. And when she saw him watching, the girl scowled (embarrassed to be observed, not comfortable with an unexpected audience) and turned away.

As she disappeared into the crowd with her family, she didn't seem to realize that she was walking away with his heart—

—She (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) glared at her papá with tears in her eyes. The rest of her family stared in shock and horror, the man's ultimatum too much for any of them to comprehend. No one ever thought it would come to this, no matter how stubborn she and her papá (the man didn't keep his family safe during the Revolution by surrendering easily, even Santa Cecilia wasn't completely safe, though luckier than some places) both might be.

The heavy words hung over them like an ominous weight, ready to drop and crush someone: she must have nothing more to do with that músico or she would no longer be part of the family.

He felt his heart sink as he dropped his head. He should have known better than to hope for the impossible. He couldn't even look at her (she deserves better than me anyway, it was never going to end differently, everyone said so, I have caused enough trouble for this family) as he started to pull his hand away.

She tightened her grip, keeping him in place.

He turned, confused (what is she doing, didn't she hear her papá, I don't understand) by her actions. The two of them had discussed a future together and it seemed promising until he tried to speak to her papá about blessing the relationship, to try and bridge the gap that always seemed to keep her parents from accepting his presence (accusing him, claiming he couldn't be trusted, saying that he wouldn't stay with her, thinking he wouldn't be loyal, not understanding how much he loved her) around their daughter.

But he knew that dream shattered the moment the ultimatum was spoken. He couldn't ask her to give up her family. He wasn't worth it. He loved her too much to ask such a thing.

But she wasn't letting go.

Her face (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) showed a mixture of anger, grief and determination as she glared at her papá. She refused to waver in whatever decision she had in mind.

Quiet and strained, she stated that families were supposed to support one another. Asking why the man couldn't be on her side. Her papá barely acknowledged her words, his arms crossed as the man waited for her stubbornness to surrender to her family loyalty. There was only one way that this would turn out. It wasn't really a choice. She would walk back into her family home and he would have to leave, trailing broken fragments of his shattered heart behind.

But she wasn't letting go.

Her hand shook slightly as she gripped his, but there was no sign of it in her gaze. And then she answered the ultimatum, her voice steady and firm (what did she say, did I hear her right, I can't believe it) as his heart skipped a beat.

The reactions of her family hit strongly. Her younger twin brothers grinned proudly with only a hint of sadness for what they were losing. Her mamá collapsed into tears, crumbling to the ground. And her papá… The man staggered back as if struck before his face hardened. And then her papá turned and marched away, not even looking back. Her mamá followed more slowly, obeying her husband's decree with more reluctance. Her brothers rebelled, wrapping her in a tight hug and whispering reassurances of their love for her.

Guilt churned in his gut (I broke this, I tore apart this family, I always wanted a family and I destroyed hers) as he watched them walk away. Even though the only family that he'd ever known was his best friend, he knew how precious it was (love, joy, belonging, never alone, comfort, love) and couldn't imagine anything more important.

But she still held his hand. And even with the sadness in her eyes, he saw no regrets. She never second-guessed any decision. Never. She chose him (she wants me, she loves me, how am I this lucky, can this be real) over her papá's harsh conditions. She accepted his nervous and hopeful proposal even against her parents' desires. And that brought a smile to his face.

He pulled her into a hug, holding her (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) close as he tried to let her silently know how much he appreciated what she'd just done and how sorry he was that she was forced into that decision. He felt her shake slightly (it was hard, it hurt her, I'm sorry, she's so strong, always so strong and determined, it's all right, let me be strong instead, let me support you until the hurt stops) in his embrace, but it didn't take her long to rest her head against his chest and wrap her arms around him tightly in return. And if he felt wetness on his shirt, he wouldn't say a word if she wished to ignore it.

She wanted to marry him. She wanted a life with him, to be his family and to stand with him. She wanted him. It was enough to terrify him and overwhelm him with sheer lovesick joy. A future with her made him happier than he could have possibly imagined.

She loved him enough to give up everything else just so she could be with him.

So he planned to spend the rest of his life making her happy—

—He knew that voice.

Warm, firm, steady, comforting… Beautiful…

Familiar and safe.

The pain didn't ease. Everything still hurt. It hurt so much. His entire body still rebelled against the very concept of existing, shrieking in absolute agony. He could feel how utterly broken it was down to the core.

But the panic ebbed as the voice washed over him and sank into his bones. He couldn't resist the feeling of safety, comfort, being wanted, and…

Home.

This was what he wanted. This was what he needed desperately.

And even with the agony in every bone in his body, even with the way being held by steady hands hurt so much, he felt himself relaxing a little. He felt safe and home.

"Cálmese," Imelda soothed gently. "You're home. You're safe. Cálmese. We're all here with you, Héctor. It's all right."

She kept talking, not pausing and not thinking about the words. She kept talking gently, keeping her hand on his ribcage and trying to block out the sounds of his pain. She kept talking to the unconscious skeleton, trying to comfort him as much as possible.

Imelda glanced towards her brother, giving Felipe a small nod. He handed the glass to her, the reddish-brown liquid giving off a bitter scent and a hint of cempazúchitl trying to mask it. She doubted that it would taste good, but medicine rarely proved to be appetizing. And as long as it eased his pain, that was all that mattered.

Bringing the glass back to his mouth, Imelda coaxed, "Come on, Héctor. You need to trust me and drink this. It's safe. Nothing is going to hurt you here. You're safe. It's all right, cariño. It's all right. It'll help. Cálmese. I've got you."

Something pressed against his mouth again, nearly sparking off that panic again. But while part of him kept shrieking not to drink, the reassuring voice kept talking. It grounded him, anchoring him almost as much as the memories that pulled him back. He kept listening to the familiar sound, trying to focus on the feeling of safety and belonging rather than the agony—

—He suspected that she was normally a morning person (too motivated to sleep the day away, she wouldn't waste it), but he found himself waking up first. He didn't immediately move though. He didn't want to wake her. Besides, he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that what happened was real and not part of a dream.

He'd wanted this (for so long, almost since I met her, before I even started caring about señoritas) and she'd wanted this. She'd wanted this enough to trade everything else. And it finally happened.

They were married.

He stared at the woman (my wife) lying next to him, breathing slowly and her face (so beautiful, so perfect) completely peaceful. She'd been gorgeous for the wedding, wearing her most beautiful dress (her brothers were a true blessing, they snuck out her belongings from her old home, wouldn't let their sister be left with nothing) while he borrowed his friend's charro suit (a little big, but it was fancier than my own, I wanted to look nice for her) for the big day. And she looked so happy the entire time that he could barely hear the words being spoken. It was like she was the only person in the whole world and nothing else mattered until the end, when he realized that they were truly husband and wife.

Neither of them had been completely certain how to handle what came next (nervous, anxious, completely inexperienced) and there wasn't really much guidance for them once they ended up in the bedroom (the more risqué songs not really helpful, my best friend's experience and advice even less helpful) alone with each other. They tried to combine their knowledge, but it wasn't much. Her mamá and the other señoritas she knew had made it sound unpleasant for the woman (I don't want that, I never want that, I want her happy) while men with too much to drink made it sound rough and violent, more of an attack rather than anything to do with love. By the time they slipped out of the beautiful clothes they wore at the church, neither of them felt any more confident about what they were doing.

But they were together and they took their time, trying to figure it out and see what made the other comfortable and happy. And in the end (love, want, pleasure, belonging, love), it seemed to work out.

And now, as light streamed through the window and bounced off her dark hair, he couldn't stop staring at her. She was many things (incredible, smart, brave, strong, determined, beautiful, talented), but rarely was she so open and vulnerable. She could be soft when necessary (soft and kind, warm, gentle) and she could be honest (speaking her mind, not hesitating, not holding back, never questioning her choices). But this was different.

Lying next to him under the thin blanket, her unbound hair ruffled and messy (still beautiful, always beautiful, always breathtaking), and sleeping soundly as the sun rose further above the horizon, there was a feeling of defenselessness that seemed foreign to the powerful and forceful woman (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) that he'd just married. He could feel it though. He couldn't explain it exactly, but he knew that he could hurt her. That he could hurt her so badly. And that by marrying him and lying in his bed like this, she was both placing herself completely at his mercy and trusting him not to hurt her.

But then, hadn't he done the exact same thing the moment he gave her his heart when they were both little more than children?

He reached his arm over and carefully pulled her closer, earning only the smallest groan of complaint. He pulled her tight against his body (soft, warm, love), settling her head under his chin and half curling around her. His heartbeat and hers set out a steady and easy rhythm, the song just waiting for the melody to start.

He would never hurt her. Never. Not with his hand, not with his actions, and not with his words. She might drive him crazy sometimes, but she was everything to him.

She was all of his love, his life, and his soul.

Not quite awake, she tried to press herself even closer to him. A smile crept across his face. This was where he belonged. With her—

—Laughter filled their home, weaving into a duet with his guitar. Fabric swirled as his wife (mi amor, mi vida, mi alma) and child (míja) danced to his lively tune. He wasn't playing a true song; only improvising whatever felt right in the moment. His audience didn't seem to mind though.

His little girl (sweet, cheerful, wonderful) bounced and twirled around, keeping to the beat even in her energetic enthusiasm. Someday she would be just as talented at dancing as her mamá, whose dancing (graceful, enchanting, mesmerizing) was only outdone by her singing (breathtaking, awe-inspiring, warm, beautiful). Neither of them could hide their bright grins even if they wanted to.

Plucking out a quick flourish, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his wife's cheek. That earned a giggle from his little girl, who ran over and tugged at his clothes. Unable to resist the child (míja, my precious little one), he crouched down to her level while his playing never faltered. His daughter used the opportunity to give her own small kiss to his nose.

Certainly not about to be outdone, he leaned over his guitar (a gift from my wife, beautiful and treasured, perfect for lullabies) and quickly peppered the girl's small face with kisses until his daughter nearly fell over from happy giggles. He ended up laughing in response and the music fumbled to a stop. His wife just stared down at her silly family, unable to completely hide the way a smile (lovely, warm, bright) tugged at her mouth.

She plucked up their daughter, balancing the girl on her hip with the ease of long practice. He stood back up a little more slowly, smiling at both of them.

How did he end up so blessed?

Setting his guitar aside, he stepped over to them. And he wrapped his arms around Imelda and Coco in a hug—

—Imelda. Coco.

Two names echoed out of the chaos, confusion, and pain. He still couldn't hold onto his own, but he remembered those two.

Coco. His daughter. The person who remembered him and kept him from slipping out of existence. The first to pull him back out of the nothing, anchoring him with memories.

Imelda. His wife. The comforting and gentle voice that seemed so close and so far away. The source of the steady stream of words that he couldn't quite understand, but found himself clinging to desperately.

Familiar. Safe. Warm.

Not alone. Belonging.

Love.

Everything still hurt. The agony didn't stop. But for just a moment, it didn't matter. Something deep within his jumbled and chaotic mind fell calm.

It was all right. He was home. He made it home. It was over.

He didn't have to resist anymore.

Something bitter poured into his mouth, a thin trickle that was swallowed without thought. As it disappeared, it was gradually replaced by a sensation of coolness. Not cold, but cool.

Slowly, far too slowly, the cool sensation began to spread and sooth the sharp pain that tried to consume him. He would have cried at the relief if he was in any condition to do anything.

As the agony eased with spreading feeling of cool numbness, exhaustion could finally take control. It wrapped around him like a blanket, carrying him down from his confused semi-conscious state towards true and restful unconsciousness.

Sleep. Actual sleep.

If you are wondering exactly what was in the green bottle, let's just say that doctors in the Land of the Dead don't necessarily use identical options to those used in life. After all, there are some major differences to work out. Like the fact they're limited in the methods they can use to deliver the medicine. After all, you can't just hook up an IV due to the lack of veins. On the other hand, you also don't have to worry about someone overdosing or causing liver damage or similar problems. Add in the fact that there is clearly some form of magic in the environment since a flower petal and blessings can be used to transport children between worlds and you end up with some really interesting potential.

So while Dr. García's painkiller might have originated as a more traditional medication during life, it has been tweaked over the decades into something a bit more skeleton specific. And it would probably be a bad idea to give it to someone alive. Especially since Dr. García half-expects Héctor not to recover and gave them the same stuff he does for people suffering the Final Death, focusing on providing something strong enough to keep him from suffering.

Similar to a refrain, "reprise" means to repeat a phrase or verse or to return to the original theme. Considering that this is another section with plenty of flashbacks that keep repeating for poor Héctor, it seemed to fit.