The rumble and groan of the tiles underfoot dislodge her heart and send it ricocheting around her chest, and between its thundering and the roar of the quakes, she can almost shut out her parents' cries.

"Mira! We have to get out!"

"Mirabel! The house is going to fall!"

She scrabbles up the wall, feeling skin and nails tearing loose against it because if she can just reach – reach – reach – just a little further...

Though weak, the flame still burns as she turns the candle over in her palm and... it's not stopping. It's not stopping.

Everything is still shaking, breaking, collapsing all around her. She is flung from the roof to the ground and lands hard and can't move because she's about to die, and nothing she's done will make any difference.

"Mirabel! MIRABEL!"

The final cry of a lost child is devoured by the dark.

She only just manages not to scream herself awake, and whether the salt in her mouth is sweat or tears or blood from a bitten lip, she doesn't know. The last moments of the nightmare cling to her, the terror of crying out for her mother, wishing to die in her arms rather than be laid out at her feet... she shivers violently.

Between the weight of her sister's arm around her and the press of blankets, she can't breathe properly and doesn't bother being gentle when escaping. The room is too small, the house is too small, the world is too small to contain all her thoughts, and though she desperately wants to want her family, they can't help her through this.

She pats the small weight in her pocket and slips out the front door because it has to be just her, here and now or never.

And it can't be never.

Bruno's eyes remain closed as he searches the pre-dawn dark. The heavy mist has returned to the valley during the night, and despite the warmth of the thick woolen ruana, the chill settles on him. His neck and scalp tingle with the weight of it, and he ruffles his hair to distract himself. The unfamiliarity of fresh air and open spaces might have been what woke him, or the unbelievably loud snores of his nephew, or the remnants of the fight with his sister that have been looming over his dreams, but... ah.

The creak of the front door quickly opening then shutting again would have been swallowed by the wind if he hadn't been listening for it, as would the many small sniffles and pattering of bare feet.

He swings out of the hammock in time to see a bushel of short brown curls and a multicolored skirt trip over the last stair, right herself, and fade out of sight.

"Mira!" He hisses, but if she heard him, she's ignoring him.

He hurries to slide on his sandals and rushes to end of the property, looking up and down the street. For one heart stopping moment, she's nowhere to be seen, and a crushing panic takes his breath.

"Mirabel!"

pit... pat... pit... pat...

Uneven, muted steps echo down the empty road, and if he squints, he can see the swish of her skirt against the gray morning, heading towards...

Oh, Mira.

He retraces the faint tracks left in the dirt from their trip yesterday, up the main street, past all the houses, to the barren hill on the far side of town. Her footprints are there to guide him when the tracks end. Up the drive, through the flower beds, around the piles of salvaged materials and trash, past the remains, to the small graveyard sheltered in the shadow of the wax palms. There are only two graves here and both are empty, their occupants each lost long before the headstones were erected. The granite is worn under his fingertips, the inscriptions almost illegible.

Pedro Madrigal – Born 19 November 1877. Died 17 October 1899. Beloved.
Bruno Madrigal – Born 17 October 1899. Disappeared 6 March 1940.

A wilted wreath lays against his – it's been there almost four years now, faint and fading but never quite gone. He sets it aside and eases himself down with his back against his gravestone.

Mirabel is on her knees with her back half-turned to him, hands in her lap. Her glasses are cast off to the side, and tears glint off her cheeks and chin. She doesn't acknowledge him; he's not sure she knows he's there or if she wants him to be. As her sobs grow deeper, she curls in on herself until the hiccoughs start, and when she straightens her back to force in a deep breath, he gets a good look at her hands.

The skin from fingertips to wrists on one hand is covered with dirt and clay and grass. The fingers on the other are clutching the burnt candle stub so tightly that wax and ash have been driven under her nails. A very fresh shallow grave lay open between his and Pedro's, ready to inter the family's latest loss.

"Let it go, Mira." He says.

When she doesn't move, he wraps his trembling fingers around hers, cradling the candle, bearing their grief. He lowers their joined hands slowly until his knuckles scrape the bottom of the hole. "Está bien, mi mariposa. We have to l-let go."

He uncurls her fingers from around the tiny carcass one at a time, and with his free hand, he covers it and draws a small cross over the little mound. Mirabel withdraws with a whimper that threatens to turn back into hiccoughs if she starts crying again, and his heart breaks a little more for her.

He had left to stop her tears; coming back wasn't supposed to bring more of them. He sighs and is almost to his feet when a small, broken voice calls "...d-don't go..."

She has a hand outstretched as though to snatch him back from the night. He slips his calloused fingers in between her cold ones and allows her to pull him back down.

"Please... please don't leave again."

"Ay, mariposa. Ven aquí, ven aquí. Está bien."

"No, it's not. I-it's all... all..."

"Nothing was ever less your fault, Mira."

"I didn't w-want to h-hurt us."

"I know."

"I-I just wanted to be... s-something I'm not."

The words he can barely hear rip him apart, and all he can do is tuck her into himself so that she won't see how many pieces he breaks into.

There's a piece of him still reeling from the shock of his return, and a piece that still wonders if being back is a good thing, and a piece that lies buried with Casita.

A piece of him is sunken into the muddy riverbank.

A piece of him breaks off every time someone offers a hug or a kiss or a smile and means it.

And the tiny bit that's left goes out to Mirabel now, and he shudders as it leaves him. He rests his chin on top her head, letting his own tears fall into her hair.

"The only thing you have ever been is perfectly loved."

She sniffs and murmurs something into his arms as she pushes herself further into his embrace.

"What, mi mariposa?"

"...you, too..."