People are definitely happy that Héctor has improved enough to wake up, even if only briefly. Being properly remembered certainly helps, but it isn't an instant fix for decades of barely clinging to existence. It'll take time to bounce back.

Imelda hummed quietly as Héctor's breathing settled back down and he drifted to sleep. She didn't know if he even heard it before he fell back into unconsciousness. But she found herself falling back on music even after nearly a century avoiding it. In the face of his reaction to moving and his confession, she didn't know how else to respond. So Imelda tried to comfort him the same way she did when Coco was a little girl and upset about missing her papá, before either of them realized that he would never be coming back. She needed to keep him calm and resting. Otherwise Héctor might try something equally foolish again.

And if he did, she didn't know if she would be able to convince her brothers to go back to bed a second time.

Between his frustrated outburst at her ill-timed and upset words and everything immediately after, neither she nor Héctor remained quiet enough for the middle of the night. When Héctor sat up suddenly, forcing her grab and support the idiota before pain could make him collapse, his reaction briefly terrified her. The choked gasp and the way that his body immediately tried to fall like a string-cut marionette made something in her lurch. She could tell that he would have lost all color in his face if he still had skin and Héctor didn't respond to her for several moments, leading her voice to grow louder than she intended. The only thing that occupied her mind was the fear that he'd managed to make things worse.

And apparently they'd been loud enough awaken Oscar and Felipe in the neighboring room. The pair had come to investigate the raised voices and found her holding Héctor and trying to pour out some medicine for him. Between the fact that he'd finally regained consciousness and they could hear his strained panting from the pain, they'd both wanted to help her. But Imelda managed to reassure them that she had it under control and promised to talk in the morning. And thankfully, once they reluctantly left, no one else showed up. At least the noise didn't wake up the rest of the household.

She wasn't exaggerating when she claimed that the last two weeks had been long. Even after the worst of their anxiety over Héctor's condition eased as he showed tangible improvement, they continued to keep watch over him. She did manage to sleep a little better though. She knew that he would still be there in the morning. But they did need to keep an eye on him. While it never seemed as intense as the first time, when his entire body grew tense and he clenched his jaw against their efforts to help, there had been a few more instances where Héctor showed faint hints of his pain resurfacing. The bottle on the bedside table was now about a third of the way empty. But those moments had grown less common and this was the first time he actually woke up. And he'd only needed the medicine when he tried to move too quickly.

And even as they continued to care for their patient, their afterlives continued. They'd worked on a few orders, including a rather large and mysterious one that Rosita and Victoria brought in. The pair had even taken some of the completed shoes to deliver, the customers for their order never setting foot near the workshop. Imelda would have normally questioned the two of them, but she had plenty of other issues to distract her. There had been a few recent customers who had either given Imelda strange looks or asked her flat-out if she was at the Sunrise Spectacular. Several of their family members had been on screen when Miguel was thrown over the side and they'd rushed over, but she was the one who made a spectacle of herself by singing in front of the crowds. She was the one they almost recognized. Imelda mostly responded to the questions with sharp glares. It was an annoying distraction from work.

Another annoying distraction would be the gossip that their customers brought in. Not to mention whenever they turned on the radio to a new station, it was the only topic that seemed to come up. No matter how satisfying it might be to know that Ernesto de la Cruz couldn't hide his crimes any longer, Imelda didn't want to keep hearing that man's name.

Especially when the occasional still-loyal fan tried to come up with increasingly-unlikely excuses for what happened. There was only so much they could say to explain why the man would nearly murder a living child, something that no one could deny with that many witnesses, but some people were trying. But most people accepted that he was a horrible person who deserved to be punished. And he was being charged with all the crimes that the police officers mentioned that morning.

Everyone was talking about it. Between the involvement of a living boy and his status as a huge celebrity, it was the trial of the millennium. Everyone wanted to know what was happening. But they were keeping the press out of the courtroom and the lawyers, judge, and everyone directly involved were keeping as quiet as possible. And that only added fuel to the frenzy. The speculation and guesses about what other dark secrets that Ernesto might be hiding flew as quickly as some of the more aerodynamic alebrijes. And when the quiet radio in their workshop started talking about how the unknown "Héctor" mentioned by the living boy had not stepped forward yet and that the mysterious song writer might have been completely forgotten…

Well, they were probably due for a new radio anyway. If it couldn't survive a few hits from a sturdy Rivera boot, then it couldn't have been constructed properly in the first place.

Imelda quietly prayed every day that they would keep her family's name out of it for now. With Ernesto's confession of the murder in front of multiple witnesses and his public attempt to murder Miguel, she hoped that no one would call on her to come to the trial and give another statement. Imelda wasn't certain that she would be able to do it. She didn't think she would be able to restrain herself again from attacking that man for everything he'd done to her family. And if they tried to call on Héctor to give testimony on how he was murdered by his best friend… Even if he was awake and well, she wouldn't want him there. She didn't want him anywhere near Ernesto.

Still humming softly, Imelda absently brushed his hair back like she used to so long ago. He didn't tell her that he was succumbing to the Final Death, but… He did try to get one last glimpse of her from a distance, trying to see her while honoring her wishes not to see him. In some ways, Imelda felt warmed by that knowledge even as it hurt. Part of her still thought it was nice to hear that he kept thinking about her. But another part felt a pang of regret from that knowledge.

"Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona," she sang quietly, "no dejaré de quererte."

It was a beautiful song, but sad. But the part about the man loving her even if it might cost him his life… It seemed to hit her harder now. Because despite what she'd believed for so long, Héctor never stopped loving her and Coco. And it cost him his life.

She'd known Héctor and how much he loved his family. She'd seen how much he valued and craved familial connections and how part of him would always be that lonely orphan who sought out anyone who could make him feel like he belonged. Even with Ernesto whispering in his ear and coaxing him to go on longer and longer trips further away, Imelda knew the man that she married. She'd known he would do anything for his family.

And yet Imelda's thoughts kept coming back to how easily she doubted him. After their years together, she knew Héctor better than anyone. She knew him and yet believed that he would abandon them. She believed the gossiping neighbors, all the disapproving comments from her papá from before, and her own quiet fears instead of the man that she loved. Why couldn't she trust him? She had every reason in the world to trust that he would keep his promises, that he would never break his word to her unless something terrible happened. Why couldn't she trust that Héctor loved them, would do anything for them, and would never abandon them? Why couldn't she see the truth sooner? Why did it take ninety-six years and nearly losing Héctor to the Final Death?

He wasn't like her parents. Héctor would never turn her away or abandon her. And yet she clearly didn't trust him in return. If she truly loved and trusted him, then she would have realized that the only thing that would have kept him from his family was death itself.

"No dejaré de quererte," she sang, barely above a whisper.

She didn't trust him and yet he loved her even when Ernesto killed him for it.

Imelda brushed back his hair again, watching him sleep peacefully. No sign of strain, stress, or pain in his features. She hurt him so much, but he would be all right now. He was getting better. And that meant that he would leave soon. Maybe he would still come around occasionally. He wanted to see her on his final day despite everything, but Imelda knew better than to think that it meant Héctor would stay. She wouldn't delude herself like that.

If she couldn't believe in and trust him when Héctor needed her to, then why would she think that she deserved his loyalty and devotion now?

She'd held on to him for as long as she could, waiting for him to heal. But now she had no more excuses. She needed to prepare herself. A week and a half ago, she'd made a decision and she was going to stick to it. The longer that she waited to take a step back, the more it would hurt when Héctor left. Imelda knew that a little distance now would prevent heartache for both of them in the future.

After everything that happened and after so long, Imelda knew that she held no claim on him. Hopefully Héctor wouldn't be too stubborn to realize it.

"I was angry for a long time. Angry and hurt. And it gave me the strength to protect our family," she murmured. "It was a difficult time. I don't know if you can understand how hard it was for a young woman with a child and no husband to survive. It… It wasn't the Revolution, but it wasn't completely safe or simple. And I needed that anger, hatred, and spite to keep going. I needed the strength it provided. It helped us survive and kept us safe. But I held onto it for too long and it started hurting everyone. Coco, Miguel, you… and myself. But anger is easier than grief and heartache. It's easier than guilt and regret. It was easier to be angry and hating you than it was listening. It was easier than considering that I might have been wrong. And even now, that anger is too deeply rooted. I don't know if it'll ever be gone completely."

She should be saying this when he was awake. He deserved to know. But it was easier to speak when she knew he couldn't truly hear her. And none of this would ever be easy for her. She was the matriarch of this family and the founder of a business that would provide for them for generations. She was solid, sturdy, and dependable. She was a pillar of strength. She couldn't be vulnerable or weak. And this was in essence a confession of vulnerability.

"I know it wasn't completely your fault what our family went through. What I endured because of your absence. But I can't be that young woman that you married. I can't go back, no matter how much I might wish for those simpler days. I'm not the same person that you heard singing in the plaza as you played." Imelda smiled sadly at the sleeping figure. "I want you. I miss you. I love you. But you won't stay. I've hurt you too much and the woman that you love is only a memory. You'll leave. But it's for the best. And I won't blame you for leaving this time. We can't pretend nothing happened. We've both been hurt enough. In both life and death."

Imelda brushed back his hair one last time. Then she settled back in her chair, trying to get comfortable. It would be all right. Everything would be all right. She survived decades without him.

The ragged and raw wound that Héctor's disappearance tore in her heart didn't hurt as much as it once did, the truth drawing out the worst of the spite and hatred from poisoning her any longer. She suspected that it would never completely heal. Even with her actual heart long gone, there would be an emptiness that would never be filled. But she would be fine. She could handle it. She wouldn't force Héctor to stay just because she missed the way things used to be almost a century ago. That would only end in more sorrow. It would be better this way.

Movement from the corner of her eye caused Imelda to turn around towards her glass door. Pepita was perched on the balcony, glowing brightly in the darkness. She stared at the woman, her tail flicking back and forth. The alebrije fluttered her wings and blinked lazily as she stared. The colors, the lights, and Pepita's mere presence felt comforting.

Even if Héctor wouldn't stay, Pepita would. Imelda would still have her. She would have the rest of her family. She didn't need anything else. She survived this long without him at her side. She would be fine.

She would be fine.

The dull ache in his bones remained as he drifted back towards consciousness. He heard people moving around somewhere below, footsteps and murmuring voices drifting up to reach him. The distant sounds coaxed Héctor into opening his eyes. The warm and golden morning light streaming into the room made him blink drowsily. It wasn't a particularly bad way to wake up. He missed the feeling of a hand resting in his though.

He wasn't certain how much time had passed, but it was morning now. The room was empty, but he wasn't exactly alone. He could hear people downstairs going about their day. Not that he knew what was downstairs or even where he was. But he had a few ideas.

The photographs on the dresser mostly showed unfamiliar faces, but he knew one for certain. Older and changed, but still beautiful and recognizable. The foto showed a young man and woman together, an obvious wedding picture filled with so much love. Héctor would always know his Coco. He could pick out the details of the child in the grown woman's smiling face.

He was in Imelda's home. Possibly even her room. Héctor could barely believe it. Not so long ago, he wouldn't be allowed anywhere close to her. Finding himself waking up in a space that clearly belonged to Imelda left him feeling overwhelmed. It was nice. It felt nice to be brought somewhere so personal. But Héctor couldn't completely bury the sensation that he was intruding.

He shouldn't be here. This was hers. He didn't belong. Not anymore.

Héctor tried to bury that feeling and focus on the nice things for the moment. The warm sunlight and soft quilt that wrapped around his bones felt much better than his aching body and stiff joints. There was a peacefulness to it. But there was something else, a sensation that he couldn't quite describe. Like something was weighing him down and keeping him in place. A heaviness, but not unpleasant.

Honestly, as long as he didn't try to move, it wasn't too bad. He could ignore the aches in his bones and enjoy his unusual surroundings.

This was nice. He was somewhere warm, bright, soft, and comfortable. He hadn't felt like this in such a long time. He wanted to soak it all in. Every detail of the room felt like Imelda.

He almost dozed back off again. Héctor couldn't seem to shake off tiredness and his surroundings seemed to be conspiring to lull him back to sleep. But creaking stairs caused him to push away some of his exhaustion and look towards the doorway. A strange skeleton with simple green facial markings and carrying a bag appeared there, Imelda following right behind.

"My patient's awake," said the stranger. "Good morning, Señor. It is good to finally meet you properly. You are a very lucky man."

Uncertain who this person was, Héctor's gaze fell towards Imelda. She stood back a little, but still gave him a small encouraging nod.

"Héctor, this is Dr. García," Imelda said. "He's a neighbor of ours and has been helping take care of you."

"I didn't do that much, Señora. It doesn't matter how talented I might be; the Final Death is beyond our ability to stop." Dr. García set his bag down on the bedside table. "The living remembered. That's the only reason that our patient is recovering. It has nothing to do with me."

Gesturing briefly at Héctor's arm, Imelda said, "You did help set his fractures, kept an eye on his recovery, and provided medicine for the pain. We are very grateful for that."

And that did explain the sensation of something wrapped tightly around a few bones. Héctor hadn't looked yet. There'd been too much going on lately and he'd focused on Imelda when he woke up last time. Now he took a moment to glance at where his arm rested on top of the quilt. Someone took the time to set his ulna, complete with a proper splint and enough gauze to cushion the injury from being jostled.

It felt strange. Professional medical attention wasn't exactly common for the people in Shantytown. Too costly and too much effort for something that did them very little good. The last time he remembered any of them bothering was when Primo Arturo broke his arm about sixty years ago. He was only fourteen when he died and he wasn't as poorly remembered as some of them at that point. No one wanted the boy to suffer and since at least a few people still remembered him even if he wasn't on anyone's ofrenda, it stood a chance at healing. Everyone scrounged together what they could so that his injury could be properly treated. It took a long time for the bone to knit back together and it remained a bit sensitive even after, but the médico did a good job at fixing the boy up. Primo Arturo's arm held together until the Final Death took him thirty years ago.

So seeing his own arm splinted and bound was a bit of a surprise.

"I don't know how much it'll help," Héctor said slowly. "I broke that a while back. But gracias."

Picking up the arm carefully and slowly so that Héctor could mostly suppress the hiss of pain the movement caused, Dr. García said, "I can tell that you haven't been healing properly, Señor." He studied the bound fracture and the surrounding bones clinically. "There is clear evidence that it's been broken for at least a few months without any signs of improvement."

"Uh… It might have been a little longer than that," he admitted quietly.

"How much longer?" asked Dr. García.

Trying to remember, Héctor kept glancing towards Imelda. She was watching and listening to the discussion closely. But she was keeping some distance. And she wasn't meeting his eyes. She kept looking at his arm, at his ribcage, and a section of the quilt covering his leg. Even if he couldn't move around enough to look himself, he knew that the broken rib and tibia were likely set at the same time as his arm.

"Not that long," Héctor said slowly. "Maybe seven or eight… years?"

"Eight years?" said Imelda. Now she was looking at her face, her expression a jumble of emotions that he was too tired to properly decipher, no matter how much he wanted to. "Eight years without healing?"

After a moment of guilt churning in his non-existent guts, Héctor said, "…That was a lie. I apolo—" He glanced down. "I'm sorry. I didn't break my arm eight years. It was closer to fifteen."

No one immediately spoke. He glanced up briefly. Imelda didn't even look at him, her eyes turning towards her vanity instead. But her body language made Héctor look back down again.

He didn't want to see her reaction to that confession. He already knew that she blamed herself for the way he was nearly forgotten. It did hurt, knowing that she could believe that he would ever… But Héctor had come to terms with it a long time ago. Her actions, while heartbreaking, were understandable reactions. And if he'd stayed when she asked, then none of this would have ever happened.

He'd hurt her enough. He hurt Imelda enough to make her doubt how much he loved his family. He left her alone, vulnerable to whatever hardships that the world might have thrown at her in his absence. His mistake turned his warm and passionate wife into someone more stern, stiff, angry, and hurt. He didn't want her guilt over things that he caused to hurt Imelda further.

"At least tell me that you haven't been walking on a broken leg for that long too," said Dr. García, slowly setting his arm back down on the quilt.

Even with the man being careful and trying not to move the limb too much, Héctor still struggled against the urge to wince. He knew theoretically that the médico was trying to help. But movement was clearly still a bad idea. And the entire conversation and impromptu exam felt exhausting.

"No, that only happened a few months ago," he said.

Dr. García nodded thoughtfully and said, "I suppose that's one small blessing. I think I can wait until later to explain exactly how much damage walking on a fractured tibia can cause. For now, let's focus on assessing your current condition. How are you feeling, Señor?"

"Tired," Héctor admitted with an exhausted sigh. "But not quite as bad as last night. And a little sore."

"Don't forget that the last time that you tried to move, it nearly made you pass out again," said Imelda, giving him a stern look.

Smiling apologetically, Héctor said, "Right. Should have mentioned that. Moving is a bad idea."

"Not surprising. Your strength is returning as you are remembered, but it has mostly been focused on healing the damage caused by your near encounter with the Final Death," said Dr. García. "You will probably be weak and tired for a while. Do you notice any other symptoms?"

"Stiffness," he said. "Even if it didn't hurt, moving…"

Héctor trailed off, not knowing how to explain the tightness in his joints. Like someone glued his bones together or dunked him in cement. He still wasn't certain how he'd managed to bolt upright before. He could feel the resistance without even trying to move. His eyes drifted back towards Imelda as he struggled to find the words to describe the sensation.

"It almost sounds like you are finally experiencing arthritis," said Imelda, studying her hands as she flexed her fingers experimentally. "One of the benefits of death was leaving that affliction behind. It was an unwanted hinderance to my work."

"Guess I missed out on that," he said quietly.

One of a thousand things that he'd missed out on. True, most people didn't look forward to arthritis, gray hair, wrinkles, weakening eyesight and hearing, and other hardships of aging. But he never had the chance. He was supposed to go through them alongside his wife, sharing those experiences over the years. The streaks of gray in Imelda's beautiful hair and her remarks about suffering from arthritis served to remind Héctor of the full and rich life that she spent without him. He was practically a child compared to the mature and authoritative figure she'd become in his absence. She got to experience so much and he ended up stuck in more ways than one.

Arthritis, gray hair, and growing old with those he loved were all experiences stolen from him.

Reaching for Héctor's arm again, Dr. García said, "You said that you feel stiff? I need to check something. This is probably not going to be comfortable. Ready?"

Being careful not to jostle his patient's bones, the médico pulled at Héctor's elbow. There was more resistance than Héctor was used to feeling, but it came loose with a slight pop and a jolt of pain from the movement. He hissed sharply as Dr. García apologized. It took a moment, but eventually reattached the limb with the same care as before. Héctor didn't open his eyes again until the worst of the pain faded again.

He looked towards Imelda, blinking tiredly. Her hand was outstretched, as if she'd been reaching towards him before stopping herself. After a moment of hesitation, she withdrew her hand and smoothed out her dress as if it was her original intention.

"Señora Rivera," said Dr. García. "Could you find another glass for his medicine?"

He was making an excuse to get her out of the room. Héctor knew it. And Imelda certainly knew it. But she couldn't ignore the request. She gave a slow nod before stepping out, the stair creaking slightly on the way down.

"Is there any other symptoms that you didn't want to mention before?" asked Dr. García. "I wouldn't be surprised if there are side effects. As far as I have been able to establish, no one has ever come as close to the Final Death and survived. We need to take our time and be aware of how your recovery progresses. So is there anything else? You mentioned fatigue, more stiffness in the joints than you are accustomed to, and pain that is agitated by movement. Any confusion or memory loss?"

"I… had a little trouble remembering things when I first woke up, but not anymore."

"Any signs of being forgotten?"

Smiling tiredly, Héctor said, "No. Even with everything else, that… I don't feel like I'm fading anymore. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel… more solid. More anchored in place." Héctor's eyes started slipping closed. "I don't think it's just Coco remembering me now."

"You are improving, Señor. I think you're right about others remembering."

"Just call me 'Héctor.' Everyone does. No need to be so formal."

"If you insist. And how would you describe the pain? Please be honest this time. I need to know how much to adjust the medication that I'm leaving here."

Héctor opened his eyes and glanced towards the doorway, trying to make certain that Imelda hadn't returned yet. He couldn't get the image of her face last night out of his mind. He didn't like seeing her that worried. And he wasn't exactly eager to talk about it anyway. But he also knew that if Dr. García told Imelda that he wasn't cooperating, it wouldn't go over very well with her.

"Everything aches," he admitted slowly, "but it's not too bad. Moving… Moving fast or a lot isn't a good idea at all. When I tried it last night, it… It hurt. A lot. Worse than when I broke my tibia."

"That should fade with time. You probably don't remember, but you seemed to be in far more pain before you regained consciousness. Just make sure that you take it easy and get plenty of rest. That should help your recovery more than anything else."

Considering how tired he still felt, those directions shouldn't be too difficult to follow. Sleep sounded wonderful. But he couldn't completely ignore the feeling that he shouldn't be there.

This was Imelda's room. This was her home. After so long of being rejected and turned away, he couldn't bury the feeling that he didn't belong. And no matter how much he might want to be with her, Héctor couldn't push things. He didn't have the right. He left her. If he wanted a chance to try and make it right, he wasn't the one who would get to decide things anymore.

Whether what he saw in her on Día de Muertos was pity or actual hope for a second chance, Héctor couldn't risk overstepping. A lot had happened that night. And their new knowledge had changed things. He would give Imelda whatever space that she might need. He couldn't pursue her or court her or beg for forgiveness. He couldn't approach things like he did the first time around. There was too much painful and extensive history between them now. And he refused to risk hurting Imelda again. He would let her take the lead. He would take a step back and let her decide how they should proceed.

It didn't matter what he wanted. He would do whatever it took to make her happy. Whether that meant standing beside her as Imelda's husband once more or leaving her alone or something in between. He would follow her lead and accept whatever type of relationship that she wanted moving forward.

And he wouldn't force her to decide immediately. They had time now. He would give her all the time and space that she might need. He would do whatever it took.

But invading her personal space and her life without giving her a chance to sort out everything on her own probably wasn't the best idea. This was probably too sudden of a change. A couple weeks ago, she wanted nothing to do with him. He shouldn't be here. Not until she was ready. He could accept that.

"So how long do you think it'll take before I'll be able to get up?" asked Héctor.

"Eager to leave?"

Glancing towards the quilt, he mumbled, "Something like that."

He needed to let her decide things. She wouldn't want him to stay. Not yet. She probably brought him to her home out of obligation, pity, and maybe just enough affection to give him hope. She couldn't leave him unconscious backstage of the Sunrise Spectacular. This was probably too sudden for her. He needed to give her some space to sort things out instead of crowding into her afterlife like this.

The entire situation felt like a little much for him as well. All of this was a huge shift from the last several decades of his existence. Especially since he didn't even expect to survive until the end of Día de Muertos. It left him a bit overwhelmed and nervous about messing everything up.

A creak of the floorboards caused Héctor to look up. Imelda stepped back into the room, carrying the requested glass in her hands. She handed it to Dr. García. Her expression remained firm and controlled without a hint of her normal warmth, but her gaze never turned towards Héctor. It made him miss the way she held his hand the night before all the more. He missed her.

Just follow her lead. Let Imelda decide what she wanted. He needed to let her set the boundaries.

"Well, even if you start feeling better, I strongly suggest staying off that leg until we see if it is going to heal or not," said Dr. García, selecting a smaller bottle from his bag. "And by that, I mean that if you even think of putting any weight on your tibia before I give you permission or if you mess with any of the fractures that I set, I will dislocate your leg and take it with me."

"He's done it before with his patients," Imelda said, briefly meeting Héctor's eyes before turning her attention back to the médico. "So you're changing the medicine?"

He nodded and said, "He is showing clear signs of improvement and he isn't experiencing as much pain. This should be enough for him as he recovers."

"As long as I remember not to sit up too quickly," said Héctor, blinking blearily as his weariness started creeping over him again.

Collecting the larger bottle from the bedside table, Dr. García said, "Get some sleep, Héctor. You need all the rest possible."

"Mmm-hmm," murmured Héctor quietly, his eyes already closing almost against his will.

Stepping out into the hallway, Dr. García wasn't surprised when Imelda spun around and asked quietly, "Is he really doing all right?"

Keeping his voice equally soft out of consideration for the sleeping skeleton, he said, "Being barely remembered for a prolonged period of time weakens the bones, some of the symptoms ending up similar to osteoporosis. Hence why his body seems so fragile and easily broken, even before his near encounter with the Final Death worsened his condition."

He'd seen those symptoms the first time he examined the patient. In several of his bones, it was easy to notice the way they'd grown porous. His hands were the easiest places to notice during his examination. But while Dr. García could still see the damage from the years of barely being remembered, he could also see the evidence of it slowly healing.

Shifting his grip on his bag, Dr. García continued, "Both his pain and fatigue are improving, though he will likely experience both for a while longer. I would predict that he'll continue to spend most of his time asleep, but he should gradually be able to stay awake for longer periods. And while a bit subtle, the discoloration of his bones appears to have improved slightly. Similarly, the colors on his facial markings look better."

"And the stiffness?" asked Imelda quietly.

Gesturing towards the stairs to indicate that they should head down, Dr. García said, "Did you see how easy it was to pull his bones apart?"

"Sí," she said, leading the way. "Far too easily."

"Memory holds us together. The memories of him were weak. For a long time. But now that he is being remembered, those connections are stronger," described Dr. García. "Not as strong as they should be, but I can see the slight improvement over the past two weeks. And even if we would consider his bones to still be too loose, I would guess that it is better than it has been in many years." As they reached the ground floor, he said, "That's why he thinks he feels stiff. I don't think he's used to his bones trying to hold themselves together anymore."

She frowned thoughtfully, but didn't respond. A moment later, one of the twins poked his head into the room. His sibling quickly followed.

"Imelda? What did—"

"—Dr. García say? Is—"

"—Héctor doing better? We—"

"—were kind of worried—"

"—last night. He was awake, but—"

"—didn't seem to be doing that great."

"He's getting better," she said. "He is sleeping right now, but he's woken up a couple times and seems to remember everything. He just can't move much yet."

"Give him some time and he'll start staying awake for longer periods of time. Just make certain that he takes it easy," said Dr. García. "And don't let him try walking on that leg. I don't care if he's already been doing that before. My patient, my rules."

So, to recap, Imelda intends to take a step back to emotionally prepare herself because she assumes that Héctor will want to leave again because of everything that's happened. And Héctor intends to take a step back because he doesn't want to push Imelda after everything that's happened and will simply follow her lead moving forward. Anyone else see a problem with this?

"Risoluto" means the music should be played resolutely. It should have a feeling of stubborn determination to it. And both Imelda and Héctor are stubborn in their own ways.