Once again, it is time for another update. I'm sure that everyone will enjoy the plot developments in this one. So let's get this show on the road.

"Ay! Doña, please! I didn't mean it. They approached me and asked. They said—"

"Silencio, mariachi. I'm not mad. There's no reason to kick up such a fuss. Honestly, you're getting upset over nothing."

"Nothing? Last time you were here, you were yelling about your grandson touching a guitar. And that shoe hurt."

"Well, this time, I'm here to ask for help finding somewhere to buy instruments for my grandchildren."

"…Qué?"

The light was on his son's room. Enrique noticed it streaming from under the door as he prepared to join his wife in their own bedroom. She'd retired earlier, the last stages of pregnancy making it harder for her to sleep, and he'd wanted to finish up a few things that took longer than he expected. By now, the hour was late and Miguel should have been asleep long before. He was a growing boy and it wouldn't help anyone if he resembled a sluggish lump in the morning.

But when Enrique opened the door to gently scold him into going to bed, he discovered that he didn't need to say a word on the subject. The light was on, but Miguel had fallen asleep. In the middle of a project, judging by the boy's awkward position and the various books and sheets of paper scattered around him on the bed.

Enrique briefly thought that he was working on trying to write music, the boy having embraced the educational book quite enthusiastically. But when curiosity prompted Enrique to look closer at the scattered materials, he didn't see any of the symbols. Nor did it look like normal schoolwork.

Most of the books were too thick for most boys his age. Thin scraps of paper were tucked into the pages as makeshift bookmarks, dozens of them poking out. And he saw a map of Mexico, one of the cheap paper ones generally sold to tourists, that Miguel had marked with a variety of colorful markers and with messy notes written in pen next to a few locations. Piles of loose paper were arranged in stacks that Enrique could only guess the meanings of, but were clearly organized in some manner. Sheets of paper ripped from his school notebook were scattered on top of the chaos, covered in his son's handwriting. Everything spoke of plenty of time and effort from Miguel.

What was his son hiding now?

"Miguel?" called Enrique gently, shaking his shoulder. "Miguel?"

"Mmm?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Running yourself ragged, míjo?" asked Enrique, smiling indulgently at the drowsy boy.

"Been a little busy," Miguel said before yawning.

"I can tell. Do you want to tell me what you're working on?"

Blinking, Miguel finally seemed to notice his surroundings. And he seemed to remember all his scattered materials currently on display. He glanced between the thick books and his papá a few times. Then he met Enrique's eyes, nervous and yet hopeful.

"I don't… I don't know if I can explain everything," he said. "There's… There's a lot and it's complicated. And no one else will want to hear it and I don't know if I have enough proof or if I'll ever have enough and—"

"I want to hear," said Enrique, interrupting the increasingly frantic stream of words. Quiet and firm, he repeated, "I want to hear, míjo. This is important to you, so help me understand. Start at the beginning. What are you working on here?"

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Miguel gave himself a brief shake and nodded. All hints of his earlier sleepiness had vanished as he shuffled through the various sheets of paper, some the handwritten notes and others clearly photocopied from somewhere. Enrique wasn't sure if he was looking for a specific piece of information or if he just needed the chance to organize his thoughts first. He let Miguel take his time, Enrique sitting on the edge of the bed and waiting patiently.

"Papá Héctor's songs… He wrote them and they're in Mamá Coco's letters. You saw them," Miguel said slowly. "But… someone else claimed to have written them. When I… snuck out to the plaza or when I snuck those movies into the attic, I heard his songs. I heard the songs, but I didn't know they were Papá Héctor's. Because everyone said that Ernesto de la Cruz wrote them."

Enrique held his tongue, if only barely. The adults of the household had touched on the topic of the odd coincidences connecting Señor Ernesto de la Cruz and Papá Héctor, about why the celebrity would have the guitar and the issues about the songs. But none of them wanted to broach the topic with any of the children. They wanted to spare Miguel that much.

And yet it seemed the boy had pounced on it.

"They grew up together. Ernesto and Papá Héctor. There's proof of that," he continued, gesturing at some of the papers stacked next to him. "Ernesto was even at his and Mamá Imelda's wedding. They knew each other. And look."

Miguel handed him one of the sheets of paper. A closer look revealed that it was a copy of one of Mamá Coco's letters. When did he have a chance to make a copy? As Enrique puzzled over that question, Miguel flipped open a book to a marked page.

"See? Papá Héctor left home at the same time Ernesto de la Cruz did. And look." Grabbing a different book and showing several different pages, Miguel said, "Both signatures. All these different places and they signed both their names at the inns. I even mapped it out. The blue dots mean that we know Ernesto was there on that date and the red ones are when Papá Héctor's signature or a letter proves that he was somewhere. The dates all match up. When Papá Héctor left home, he didn't go alone. They were traveling together."

Miguel traced his finger along a green line on his map, showing the path that the two musicians took across Mexico. And while there wasn't a red dot at every location a blue one appeared, they were together often enough that it couldn't be a coincidence. And the tiny scribbled dates next to each city helped support his belief that the two were traveling together.

"But then… in December 1921… that's the last time Papá Héctor's name shows up with Ernesto's signatures. A small inn… in Mexico City. After that, there's nothing. No letters. Nothing. He just disappeared."

Enrique stared at the thick books, the piles of photocopied papers, and the handwritten notes. This was clearly the results of hours of work. Hard work and research that would make a grown man hesitate. Miguel was obviously highly-motivated.

This meant the world to him.

"That's not enough, but there's more. Señor Tomás Estévez wrote a book called 'Music, Memories, and Myth: The Mysteries Behind Ernesto de la Cruz' that talks about a few other strange things about him. Things that don't add up. One of the main things that he mentioned was a songbook that Ernesto de la Cruz always kept with him. It contained all the songs that he was famous for. But when people looked at it after his death, his handwriting didn't match what was in the book. They put it in a museum and everything, but they could never agree on an explanation for that. Señor Tomás Estévez thinks that it means that Ernesto did something called 'plagiarism,' which I think means that Señor Tomás Estévez thinks that Ernesto stole the songs from someone else."

Miguel shoved yet another book into Enrique's hands, forcing him juggle the rest of the research materials that his son handed him. Pictures of the contents of the songbook were spread across the page next to pictures of other samples of Ernesto de la Cruz's writing. Enrique wasn't an expert, but they didn't look that similar to each other. But it did look familiar.

Clearly following his papá's train of thoughts, Miguel pointed at the copy of the letter in Enrique's other hand. Papá Héctor's letter to his daughter… That handwriting looked exactly like the picture of the songbook.

"You see it, right?" Miguel asked. "Papá Héctor's songs in his handwriting in a book that Ernesto de la Cruz had? And there's something else."

He grabbed yet another book. He flipped to different pages marked by scraps of paper, pointing out dates on each one.

"All those songs… 'Un Poco Loco.' 1922. 'The World Es Mi Familia.' 1924. 'Never Knew.' Became famous from the balcony scene in 'A Quin Yo Amo,' but he claims to have written it in 1927. 'Only a Song' from 'Nuestra Iglesia.' The movie was in 1938, but the song was supposedly from 1930. 'Remember Me.' 1926. All those songs show up in Papá Héctor's letters years before Ernesto de la Cruz supposedly came up with them," Miguel said. "I think he tried to spread them out because he could only use the songs in the book because Papá Héctor couldn't write him more after he disappeared in 1921."

"So you believe that Señor Ernesto de la Cruz stole the songbook from Papá Héctor," said Enrique slowly.

"And his guitar," he said quietly. A little louder, Miguel said, "It's a lot of little things that just keep adding up. That's the only explanation. But as bad as all that is, I can give people proof. There's one part that I can't. The worst part."

"What is the worst part then, míjo?" Enrique asked.

"We know they traveled together. We know that Ernesto took those songs and claimed them as his own," said Miguel. "There's proof. You can see it here." He gestured at the papers and books. "But… I can't prove this part. I can't. But… why didn't Papá Héctor come forward and tell anyone that Ernesto took those songs? Why did he disappear in 1921 from his tour and stop writing letters? Something happened… something bad…"

Enrique couldn't miss the dark expression that briefly crossed his son's face. Nor could he dismiss the possibility that Miguel raised. A man could do unthinkable things for money, power, and fame. And both Luisa and Carmen agreed that the songs they'd identified as Papá Héctor's works were also the songs that made Ernesto de la Cruz's entire career.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Enrique said slowly. "And a lot of work."

Miguel nodded and said, "Whenever I can. When I don't have school or homework or practice for guitar or you and everyone teaching me a little about making shoes so I know how to do that and play music… But I find time. And I always get my homework done first." Yawning slightly, Miguel said, "I told you. It's been busy trying to do it all."

Setting everything he was holding on the floor next to the bed, Enrique asked gently, "And now that you found this proof, what is it you have in mind? What do you think should happen next?"

"The librarian? She… She figured out a little bit of what I was doing and said that if I found enough proof, she would help me. She would help get the truth out."

Enrique remembered Doña Esther López. She was always nice and helpful whenever he needed to venture into the library. And her family had been part of the Santa Cecilia community for nearly as long as the Riveras. They were simply a little less specialized. She was in charge of the library and he was relatively certain a nephew or cousin had moved to a different city for some type of job involving writing, but others did work in town hall. Administrative stuff, if Enrique recalled correctly. She might have the connections to do what she said.

"And if she tells people instead of us, no one will think we're doing this for attention or trying to be famous by calling Ernesto a liar," continued Miguel. "They might believe it coming from someone who isn't Papá Héctor's family. She can take the credit for figuring out that Ernesto stole those songs. I don't need it. I just want… I don't want people to only remember Papá Héctor as the man who never made it home to his family while remembering Ernesto de la Cruz like… like he's some kind of hero and musical genius. There's been enough secrets and lies. Everyone deserves to know the truth. That's what I want."

He looked so determined as he spoke. Enrique could see hints of the man that Miguel would someday become. It left him both proud of his son and a little sad to see him growing up so fast.

"If that's what you truly want, then that's what we'll do," Enrique said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'll talk to the rest of the family tomorrow while you're at school."

Miguel smiled, looking visibly more relaxed than he did at the start of the conversation. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders now that there was someone to help bear it.

"Now that we've sorted that out, is there anything else that you want to tell me, míjo?" Enrique asked.

Dropping his head, Miguel said, "I took Papá Héctor's guitar from Señor de la Cruz's crypt. That's why it vanished after Día de Muertos."

"I know. We figured that much out," he said gently. "You know that it was wrong to steal that guitar, right?"

"It was also wrong for Ernesto de la Cruz to steal everything from Papá Héctor," said Miguel. "I think that's worse than what I did."

"Which is why we haven't taken the guitar back yet," Enrique said. "But we'll have to deal with that eventually. And from now on, we'll handle things the right way."

"Sí," said Miguel with a nod. "And… And Dante has been sneaking in here and staying around. Oh, I should mention that Dante's a dog. He's my dog. Kind of. He's a stray, but he's also mine?"

Struggling to keep a straight face, Enrique said, "Well, thank you for being honest and telling me about this. You know that you don't have to keep secrets from your family." Unable to resist any longer, he chuckled and said, "But your dog isn't exactly subtle. We know he's been staying here."

"So can I keep him?"

"Only if you promise to go to sleep now," Enrique said firmly. "It's late and you have school in the morning."

Shifting the rest of his research to the floor, Miguel scooched down until he was curled under his blanket and his head rested on his pillow. It didn't take more than a couple moments for the drowsiness to return to his expression. The late hour had obviously taken its toll on the boy. He was already dozing off by the time Enrique turned off the light.

Imelda thought that she'd broken the habit of looking in on her husband sleeping in her bed. It made sense when he was unconscious and needed someone to watch over him, when no one knew if he would survive. But it had been a little over a month since Día de Muertos and a little over two weeks since he first woke up. Over two weeks since she promised herself that she would keep her distance. Almost three weeks, actually. It had been four days since their family dinner. Héctor was getting better. He was spending more time awake and he continued to look healthier.

And handsome…

But regardless, Héctor was doing better. She didn't need to check on him anymore. But Imelda needed to put a few receipts in her office and her bedroom was just down the hall. It would only take a moment to pause at the doorway and glance at the bed, Héctor undoubtedly sleeping soundly. And even though she didn't need to check on him, Imelda couldn't stop herself.

Héctor wasn't in her bed.

Unlike a few weeks ago, his absence wouldn't be enough to send her panicking. Héctor wasn't as weak anymore. He wasn't technically bedbound by his condition. Dr. García even managed to find a cane to help keep some of the weight off his broken leg and with his balance, having come to the conclusion that crutches would probably result in Héctor tumbling down the stairs. But while Héctor could theoretically move around on his own, he hadn't tried it before this point. Not without someone else accompanying him.

As Imelda wracked her mind for ideas of where he might have went, trying to ignore the thought that he might have left because she couldn't blame him since she knew it would happen eventually and yet it hurt to consider, she suddenly noticed that the door to her balcony was open.

Imelda walked over and looked out. Curled up in her favorite spot on the balcony and enjoying the sunlight warming her colorful fur and feathers, Pepita stared back at her. Her purring rumbled loudly. But the alebrije didn't move from her spot. She didn't try and bump her head against the woman, begging for attention and for someone to scratch behind her ears and horns. Pepita remained firmly in place, clearly not wishing to disturb the skeleton leaning against her side.

His legs stretched out and the cane lying on the ground next to him, Héctor slept quietly in his borrowed pajamas. Pepita's tail curled around him protectively, like he was just a gangly and clumsy kitten in need of supervision.

Part of her argued that she should either wake Héctor up or just leave him in peace. What Imelda ended up doing was sitting next to him, leaning against Pepita's side. The gentle warmth of her fur and feathers, the rumbling purr vibrating through her bones, and the cozy sunlight streaming down left a drowsy feeling behind. Imelda could understand how he drifted off. It wouldn't take too much for her to fall asleep as well.

The entire thing felt peaceful.

Héctor's head slid slightly towards her, his breathing even and deep. She could really appreciate how much better he looked now that she was so close. The colors on his face were brighter, reflecting his normally-energetic personality. The bone polish had smoothed out the dull scratches and texture, though it would take time for them to end up completely smooth. And his messy hair looked so soft and delightfully ruffled.

Almost against her will, Imelda reached out and gently ran a hand through his dark hair. Héctor smiled slightly and seemed to relax, but didn't stir any further. Embolden by that fact, Imelda repeated the gesture. It was as soft as she remembered.

Héctor slipped a little further, startling her when he ended up leaning against her. Imelda froze at the contact, her husband's weight now pressing against her side and shoulder. She held still, waiting… But he didn't wake up. He kept sleeping peacefully, unaware of how close he was to his wife. After a moment, she let herself relax.

Imelda noticed his fingers started twitching in his sleep. She'd seen those motions a lifetime ago. She recognized the fingerings of familiar chords. Music filled his dreams even now. That thought coaxed a smile to her face.

Once, they would have been like this. Sitting next to each other… Enjoying his presence and drawing comfort from his proximity… Back when they were first married, when everything seemed so simply in comparison, it would have been like this. Well, minus the giant alebrije purring at their backs.

She closed her eyes, letting her head lean against him in return. She could almost pretend that they were relaxing at home after a long day of taking care of their rambunctious daughter, something that happened countless times. And at any moment, Coco would come bounding in, ready to drag her papá off to tuck her into bed. But for the moment, the young parents could enjoy their time together in peace.

It… It was nice. To remember…

She wanted that. Her long-absent heart still ached for that even after so many years. It ached for him. She didn't need Héctor or those distant days; she survived just fine without him. But she wanted it. She wanted to have that again.

Maybe it was impossible. Maybe she could never get back the life together that was stolen from them. And maybe it would end in heartache and he would probably leave again. And almost certainly after she undoubtedly found a way to hurt him again. She should remain firm. She should keep to her earlier decision. It was selfish to want something so impossible.

But in that moment, out on the balcony with her husband while Pepita watched over them, Imelda wanted to hope. She wanted to try. And she loved him too much not to try, no matter how doomed she knew the attempt would be.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Imelda reluctantly opened her eyes. She brushed her hand through his hair again, letting the soft strands slip between her fingers. She wanted to do more, to lean in and… But she let her hand slowly fall away. And then, easing back to her feet silently, Imelda slipped away.

By the time she returned to the workshop, Imelda had made her decision. None of her family asked what took her so long as she walked past them. She was a woman on a mission. While she possessed a thorough knowledge of the various raw materials on hand, she took her time to look over the rolls of leather as the rest of the family worked on the waiting orders. She intended to take her time. Imelda always made her customers' shoes to the best of her ability, but these needed to be perfect.

Her husband needed a pair of shoes.

He'll leave. She'll hurt him again or he'll hurt her inadvertently and then he'll leave.

The thought echoed in her mind even as Imelda shoved it back down. It didn't matter. That fear didn't have any influence on what she was doing.

Regardless of what happened next, Héctor would walk out with the best pair of Rivera shoes that Imelda ever crafted.

"Dolce" means to play sweetly. And if any chapter of this story so far deserves to be referred to as sweet, I think it would be this one. Things are looking up for once. Let's just hope that no one does anything to mess things up.