I know that some of you eager to see how things are in the Land of the Living. Well, you're in luck. We're going to check on them right now. Enjoy!

Most people would not consider the life of a librarian to be very exciting, but Esther López found it satisfying. The quiet shelves filled with books and old papers, knowledge just waiting to be found, called to her more than any other life possibly could. Most days were relatively routine and she was fine with that. But sometimes she would be handed a particular challenge and would have the excuse to dive into the collections in search of answers.

The young boy, the one who came in with a foto and questions about Ernesto de la Cruz's past, presented one such challenge.

Esther wasn't a fool. She grew up in Santa Cecilia under the gaze of that proud statue. In a small town that embraced the past so strongly and depended on the revenue brought in by eager tourists, Esther couldn't escape the man. His songs, his face, and his guitar remained intimately familiar to everyone. She knew the guitar that used to hang in Ernesto de la Cruz's crypt until it vanished on Día de Muertos. The same guitar that appeared in the boy's foto, held by his musician great-great-grandfather, Héctor.

Furthermore, he signed out the books under the name of Miguel Rivera. The family name belonged to the creators of shoes of the highest quality and the last people that she expected to be involved with music. That only made the mystery more intriguing.

She'd provided him with a few of the more detailed biographies before he left with his copies of his foto. But Esther told him to return in a few days to give her time to find some more information. She managed to pull a few of the more obscure volumes from the shelves and even found one of his requested "conspiracy theory" books about the man tucked away. Far more interesting was what she located in the archives.

While some might mistakenly believe that the Orfanato de la Cruz was named for the famous musician before it closed down twenty years ago and was converted into a museum, Esther knew that it was the other way around. It was part of his narrative of coming from nothing only to become a success. An orphan with no family who became someone beloved by the world. And some of the old records from the Orfanato de la Cruz were available for study.

She knew that Ernesto de la Cruz was born in 1896, but his autobiography stated that his mamá didn't leave him there until he was six. So Esther pulled out the yellowed paper recording the names of the orphans residing there at the end of 1902 to make a copy for the boy. And that was when she noticed something.

In the faded cursive handwriting, it listed Ernesto, age six, abandoned at the church by a woman who left with an unknown man. It didn't name his mamá or even confirm that the man was related to him. It was only a general list rather than a detailed record of the boy. But a few names down, Esther found another familiar name. In the same careful writing, the records listed Héctor, age two, orphaned when a lone pregnant woman arrived in Santa Cecilia and died shortly after in childbirth.

Héctor. The name of the boy's great-great-grandfather. The one in the foto with Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar. Perhaps it could be someone else, but the name, the timing, and the foto was too much evidence to ignore. It had to be the same person. They both spent their childhoods in the Orfanato de la Cruz together. They knew each other.

Curiosity and suspicions sparked by the boy's questions and requested books only grew with this new discovery. And Esther wasn't going to let it go. Not when Miguel Rivera piqued her interest so strongly.

Besides, Prima Helena would have been urging her on if she was still alive. She loved uncovering the truth and figuring out a good mystery almost as much as Esther. If she didn't love working with and helping children as much as she did, her cousin probably would have made a great detective. Maybe that was why she and Esther got along so well growing up.

After copying the records for Orfanato de la Cruz, she decided to pursue a hunch. With the ages provided and the established year that Ernesto claimed to leave Santa Cecilia, she could figure out a range of years to check. She searched through the yellowed and brittle papers until Esther found what she'd guessed would be there. On a marriage certificate for Héctor and Imelda Rivera on January 22, 1917, one of the listed witnesses of the marriage was Señor Ernesto de la Cruz.

They didn't just know each other. They were close. The mystery was growing more and more interesting.

"What are you really up to, Miguel?" she muttered under her breath. "What do you know?"

The boxes of old archives did not give her any direct answers to her questions. But she didn't mind helping the boy find what he was searching for in the books and the records. Maybe he would even share more information with her when he returned for the rest of the promised research.

And with that, Esther López made a copy of the marriage certificate and continued her search through the shelves for anything of interest. About either of the men.

Sunlight streamed through the window, warm and golden streams that painted the room. Her wheelchair was positioned perfectly for the warmth to soak into her bones a little, though not even her pink shawl could completely banish the chill of age. Somewhere outside, she could hear Manny and Benny playing. After so many years of watching over the youngest Rivera children, the sound of their energetic laughter was music to Coco's ears.

But she could also hear real music now, something she'd been denied for a long time. Careful and precise notes filled the air as Miguel worked his way up and down the scale and practiced various snippets of songs, some that she could barely remember and yet felt familiar. Coco smiled at the memory it teased out of her faded mind, her papá practicing on his guitar to work out a difficult section on a new song. She would have to tell Miguel about it later. He might look quite a lot like her Julio when he was younger, but she could see more and more of Papá in his mannerisms and talent. Especially now that Miguel could share his musical talent with his family.

As her great-grandson played on the beautiful instrument, Miguel was also talking. While he would tell her anything and everything, today's discussion was a bit more focused.

"I thought it would be a good idea to look up all the dates. I already wrote down the ones from the letters you kept, yours and Mamá Imelda's letters," he described. "Now I'm going through the books from the biblioteca and finding the dates for the different songs. I mean, I know when Ernesto claimed to write them, but I'm making sure I can prove it to other people too. And I'm writing down which book and what page I find the dates on. That'll make it easier to show that Papá Héctor wrote the lyrics before Ernesto de la Cruz did."

"Very smart," said Coco.

"It's boring. Like homework, only worse. But I've been working on it. I've been reading a really thick book by… I think it was Señor Diego Flores. And it is really hard to concentrate on, but he's got all this information like hotel registries and old diary entries from people who watched his shows and handmade flyers people kept that were made for his early performances. Señor Flores found all this evidence that helped him trace his path across Mexico before Ernesto became famous."

"Does it talk about Papá?"

His head and expression dropped, his fingers continuing to work their way along the strings. Coco supposed that would be too much to ask. Why would the writer mention her papá when no one knew how important he was? How absolutely wonderful and desperately missed he was? But then Miguel started speaking again, halting her thoughts.

"Not exactly," Miguel said. "There were pictures of some of the hotel registeries and even if he focused on the date, location, and Ernesto de la Cruz's signature, you can still read some of the other names. And a few times, I could see 'H. Rivera' on the papers. I wrote down the pages in the book when his signature shows up so it'll be easier to find when I go back to look. I'm writing a lot down. And there's so much to read."

"I'm sorry, míjo. I wish I could help, but eyes aren't what they used to be," said Coco.

He smiled at her and said, "Don't worry about it, Mamá Coco. I can look for evidence while you tell us about Papá Héctor. That's just as important."

"And what are we going to do when you finally have enough evidence?" asked Coco.

His smile evaporated. The boy dropped his eyes as he quietly strummed the guitar. Miguel slowly shook his head.

"I'm still not sure. We'll need plenty of evidence though. No one will want to believe that Ernesto de la Cruz is a fraud."

"And a murderer."

"That will be even harder to prove."

Especially since they didn't know when or where the murder happened. They didn't even know where her papá was buried. Did he at least get a proper burial? Did someone even notice that his death was suspicious before placing Papá in the ground? Or did Ernesto deny him even that dignity, hiding her papá's body in a shallow and unmarked grave? Without knowing when or where the crime happened, how could they prove what the man did? Especially when it happened so long ago?

At least proving he stole Papá's songs would be a little easier than that.

"Tomorrow I'm going back to the biblioteca to get the rest of the stuff," Miguel said. "She promised to make me some copies of old records and to find a few more books. I don't know how I'm going to read all of this, practice some songs, spend time in the workshop because Papá still wants to teach me about shoes, do my homework, and have any time to sleep." He paused a moment, a thoughtful expression passing across his face. "Do you think it would be all right to miss a few assignments?"

"Míjo, you will finish all of your homework," scolded Coco gently, decades of caring for children coming through.

Ducking his head while not completely hiding his grin, Miguel said, "All right. I'll manage. I'll do my homework." Peering back up at her, he added, "You know, you just reminded me of Tía Victoria when she tried to convince me that vitamins are real."

While part of her smiled at the comparison, it was a bittersweet one. Her little Victoria was such a serious and practical girl. She was sweet, but she expressed her affection in more subtle ways than her sister. And she would certainly be the type to lecture the boy on the importance of vitamins. Elena used to complain about her sister talking about things she read in her newest book, even when Elena was busy with other things. Victoria was Coco's smart, serious, and wonderful daughter.

She lost her Victoria too soon, collapsing one day with no more warning than an intense headache. A ruptured aneurysm in her brain, the doctor explained afterwards. There was no way that any of them could have seen it coming, so how could they have prevented it? But it felt like a failure to outlive her daughter. Just as she outlived so many of her loved ones.

But Victoria was with Julio, Mamá, Rosita, and her tíos. And Papá. They were together. They were together, happy, and waiting to see her again. And that wasn't so bad.

It didn't stop Coco from remember Victoria and Elena as little girls, wandering around the workshop and helping clean up the scraps on the days that neither she nor Rosita could be spared to watch over them. They were always happy to help out. Her daughters enjoyed and embraced the shoe-making operation far more than Coco ever did. It came naturally to them and they never seemed to want anything different.

Or perhaps her girls had different dreams than making shoes, but suppressed and hid them because her daughters assumed no one would support a different life. That they would need to set other dreams aside because their family needed them. Would they have loved music if given the chance? Coco might never know. She could only hope that her daughters had happy lives, even if Victoria's was far too short. It was the best that Coco could hope for.

But she couldn't help wondering what it would have been like for her girls to grow up without the music ban. What it would have been like for Victoria and Elena to know their abuelito. What it would have been like if their family was never torn apart by murder and lies.

Smooth chords and soft words, a voice singing a gentle refrain, briefly reminded her a tall man with love in his eyes before pulling her thoughts back to the present. Coco blinked a few times before focusing on her grandson again. She had a feeling that he'd probably been trying to get her attention for a while before switching to that song. Miguel smiled at her as he finished the familiar lullaby.

"Sorry about that, míjo," she said in a soft voice. "My mind still tries to wander a bit."

"That's all right." He switched to another song, plucking out a few notes. "I like playing it for you."

"And I like hearing that song," she said quietly. "More than you can imagine."

A short knock at the doorway caught their attention. And the nervous voice that accompanies it ensured that they gave their visitors their full attention.

"Miguel? Can we talk?"

Coco watched as Rosa and Abel stepped into the room. While her great-granddaughter looked a little more determined than her brother, neither of them could completely hide their anxiety. Abel's shoulders were hunched enough to disguise his height and his sister was holding her wrist nervously. Their discomfort left Miguel staring at his cousins, confusion sweeping over his face.

"Sí?" said Miguel, glancing between the pair.

Releasing her grip on her wrist and straightening to her full height, Rosa said, "You told me that if I told your parents that you were going to the biblioteca about a week ago, you would owe me anything I want. Right?"

Coco could tell from Miguel's expression that he was starting to regret making that deal. But he gave a stiff nod.

The siblings exchanged glances, a flurry of silent conversation flying between them, until Rosa took a step forward and said, "Well, we're calling in that favor. We…" Rosa shifted uneasily. "We…"

"We need your help," said Abel. "You and Mamá Coco managed to talk Abuelita, Tío Enrique, and Tía Luisa into letting you play that guitar."

"Which still looks a lot like the one everyone is talking about being missing from the crypt," Rosa said, crossing her arms. "The one that you can see on the statue."

"Papá's guitar," said Coco firmly.

"Right,' Rosa said, straightening her glasses. "Well, we were hoping that you might help us… talk our parents and Abuelita into letting us too?"

That brought a smile to Coco's face and caused Miguel's eyebrows to shoot up. Music had barely returned to the family and her great-grandchildren were eager to embrace it. Her papá would be so proud.

"You two want to learn how to play the guitar?" asked Miguel.

"No," Abel said. "I don't think my fingers are nimble enough to do what you do."

Miguel grinned and played a very fast and very difficult string of music, his fingers almost a blur. Rosa rolled her eyes as he tried to show off.

"We don't want to play a guitar like you, but may be something? A different instrument?" said Rosa.

"Not that we know about other instruments that much," Abel said. "We didn't sneak out to the plaza like you did all the time."

Grinning brightly, Miguel said, "You don't know what you've been missing. There are so many different choices. Like the trumpet or the guitarrón or the violin."

"Maybe you could take them down to the plaza and let them hear what they sound like, míjo," suggested Coco. "That might help them decide." Giving all her great-grandchildren a warm smile, she said, "And don't worry about Elena and the rest of the family. It'll be all right."

She doubted that Elena or Berto would raise too many objections. Especially now that the music ban was lifted. And certainly after Día de Muertos, when they tried to find their missing boy after he ran away because of their actions. Even if she wasn't really aware of her surroundings much during that night and she didn't hear the undoubtedly-tense conversation the following morning, Coco knew her daughter and grandchildren. Enrique had obviously made it clear that no matter how much he loved and respected his mamá, he wouldn't let her hurt his son like that again. It left an impression on Elena and Coco knew that her daughter would be more cautious in her approach towards the children for quite some time. She would not hinder their interest in music.

And it would be nice to hear all of them playing, songs and laughter filling the house like when she was a little girl.

His body was disappearing before his eyes, his flesh fading to reveal bones. He was running out of time. He couldn't feel his own heart beating in his chest anymore, the unnatural silence and stillness inescapable. Everything about it was wrong.

He was running out of time. They all were. That thought kept screaming in his head. It was almost morning. The sun was about to rise and when it did, he would never go home. He was dying. There was no other way to say it. He was running out of time and he was dying. Miguel couldn't bury his panic.

He didn't want to die. They were both going to die. He had to get home.

A strong hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him off his feet. Miguel struggled against the grip as it forced him to stare into the eyes of a murderer. The familiar face that he'd seen on magazines, record covers, and television screens barely seemed recognizable. Not merely because his flesh was long gone, exposing a skull with silver markings. His friendly and charismatic face was twisted by rage and desperation. And all of Miguel's past love and admiration had transformed to hate and terror.

Ernesto de la Cruz no longer looked like the good guy. He looked like a monster. He was the only skeleton that Miguel feared in the Land of the Dead.

Have to escape. Have to escape. They were running out of time.

One hand trying to pry free of Ernesto's grip while the other clutched the foto tightly, Miguel tore his gaze away from the man's wild eyes. Over Ernesto's broad shoulders, the boy saw another skeleton collapsed on the ground. Golden-orange light flashed across his shaking body.

Papá Héctor.

They were both running out of time.

Any fear that wasn't concentrated on his own precarious situation focused on his fading relative. Miguel tightened his grip on the foto and doubled his effort to break free. They were both in danger. They were both dying. He needed to go home, but he couldn't let Héctor be forgotten. He had to save him. Miguel couldn't lose him. He promised that Héctor would get to see his daughter.

Please, someone help. Please! They were running out of time.

His fingers, faded to pale bones, dug and pulled at the strong hand holding him up. His legs kicked wildly, trying to hit something with enough force to break free. Desperation and fear fueled his struggles.

Miguel didn't want to die. He didn't want to lose Héctor.

Please!

"He's a living child, Ernesto," begged Héctor, light flaring over him as his body spasmed weakly.

"He's a threat," he snarled.

Terror clawed at the boy. Terror for himself and terror for Héctor. And far too much terror of the lying murderer who held them both at his mercy.

"Let me go. Stop it," said Miguel desperately. "Héctor! Hold on. Just hold on. I'll save you." He glared briefly at Ernesto and said, "You won't get away with this. I won't let you. I won't let you hurt anyone else, you coward."

His grip tightening, Ernesto said, "I am the one who is willing to do what it takes to seize my moment."

Miguel peered over the man's shoulders again, trying to meet his great-great-grandfather's eyes. Héctor was weakening rapidly and the glowing was growing worse.

They were running out of time. The only question was which would claim a victim first: the light of the Final Death or the reveal of bones. They were both running out of time.

His voice and expression darkening, Ernesto added, "Whatever it takes."

Ernesto lifted him higher, giving Miguel a perfect view as the golden glow overtook Héctor's body. His great-great-grandfather barely managed to give him a weak and apologetic smile, his eyes unable to completely hide his fear for the boy. And then he collapsed into dust, blowing apart in the morning breeze.

"No!" Miguel shouted, reaching out with the hand clutching the foto.

And then with a jolt of movement, Ernesto hurled him over the edge and sent Miguel plummeting off the building.

Miguel screamed as he tumbled wildly and the wind whipped past. Helpless and terrified, the world was pure chaos. He couldn't even recognize any directions, his head spinning as gravity kept pulling him faster. His arms and legs lashed out in uncoordinated movements, useless and desperate.

Then the wind ripped the foto out of his hand. He grabbed at it, but he couldn't do anything. It vanished.

He caught sight of the ground, unforgiving stone rapidly approaching.

Closer…

And closer…

And—

Miguel sat up sharply, gasping for breath and shaking slightly. His heart pounded in his chest while the beat filled his ears, unlike the nightmare where it had been completely absent.

A nightmare. One crafted from memories, but just a nightmare.

The fourth one in the week and a half since Día de Muertos.

He was safe. He was home. He was in his bed, in his room, and no where near any heights or any dead lying murderers. He was safe.

Still struggling to slow down his breathing, Miguel fumbled blindly under his pillow. Even if the sliver of moonlight through his window wasn't enough to really see anything, his fingers found the piece of paper and pulled it out.

It was a copy of the repaired foto, the one with Héctor's face.

"He's safe. I'm safe and Papá Héctor is safe," he whispered shakily, forcing himself to believe the words. "I made it in time. He didn't disappear. I know it. Ernesto won't hurt anyone again. And no one will forget."

Miguel rubbed the edge of the copied foto with his thumb, trying to push the worst of the nightmare's effects to the back of his mind. It wasn't made from the thicker and stiffer paper used for photographs. The librarian copied it on normal paper. But it was still a foto. It was still a guarantee that Héctor would be on the ofrenda next year. It would help make sure that their family wouldn't forget him anymore.

"This is Papá Héctor," he whispered, not caring that he couldn't actually see the image. "When Mamá Coco was a little girl, he was a musician and would play his guitar for her. He wrote one song for her, a lullaby, and another song for Mamá Imelda. He could always tell Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe apart and he would cover his daughter's face in kisses. And Papá Héctor borrowed Ernesto's charro suit for this foto because he wanted to look nice for it. But most importantly, he loved his family so much. More than anything else in the world."

Miguel quietly and firmly repeated the stories that Mamá Coco told them. Memories passed down by someone who knew him in life. He whispered them, reassuring himself that he remembered. As long as he remembered the stories she told, then Héctor was remembered.

And if Héctor was remembered, then he was safe. He didn't disappear. Héctor was all right. Miguel wasn't too late.

Miguel wasn't turning into a skeleton. He wasn't falling anymore, plunging towards his death. And Héctor wasn't being forgotten. Everything would be fine.

Fighting back a yawn, he slipped the foto back under his pillow and settled back in bed. At least he would get the chance to sleep a little more. One of the unexpected side effects of the music ban lifting was that they could go to the later church service. There were two on Sundays; the simple one that happened very early in the morning when no one wanted to be awake and the second at a more reasonable hour when there were a few more extravagant features. Like a choir and music. The Rivera family always went to the earlier service because there was no music. But that was not an issue anymore and even Abuelita appreciated the idea of not dragging herself out of bed at such a crazy hour. And that meant extra sleep for everyone.

He tugged the blanket closer and closed his eyes. Miguel slowly relaxed until sleep started pulling at him. He let himself drift back off, his dreams thankfully free of glowing golden tremors, cruelty hidden behind charming smiles, and terrifying heights.

And now we're caught up with what is going on in the Land of the Living. Progress is slowly being made when it comes to research and Rosa and Abel are starting to explore their new freedom regarding music. Not to mention we get to see some of the effects that Miguel's eventful night had on him. It would be too much to expect that he wouldn't have at least a few nightmares of his own.

"Accelerando" means "accelerating" and indicates for the person playing the music to gradually increasing the tempo. Not instantly speeding up, but gradually over time. I thought it would be appropriate for a chapter that involves a time skip.