Miguel sighed, resting the back of his head against the windowsill. His neck was stiff from sitting in the same position for what felt like hours, his shoulders cramped from hunching over the instrument in his hands. Even the pads of his fingers were tingling and tired, every vibration of the strings traveling straight up his weary arms. But he couldn't find it in himself to be dejected for long; he was tired, but he was tired in the open. He was in his bedroom, on his bed, in broad daylight… with a guitar.

"I just don't know, Dante." A dusty sneeze answered him from beneath his bed, proof his best friend (and spirit guide) was listening. "Songwriting's a lot harder than I thought…." Miguel had thought songwriting would come naturally to him— it was in his blood, after all! But now he knew that you couldn't just put words to a tune and call it a song. There had to be rhythm, cadence, and above all: it had to mean something.

Trying to write his own song had given him a healthy dose of respect for Héc—Papá Héctor. Papá Héctor had to have worked hard for a long time on all the songs he'd written when he was alive. Anyone who listened to them could hear the heart he put into each and every one: a soft lullaby for his beloved daughter, a quirky tune for the woman who made him just a little crazy with love.

Even a hopeful song, brimming with life and joy, for the man he'd once called his best friend. The same man who decided that his worldwide family meant more to him than the people who truly cared for him. Who stole all those songs right out from under poor Héctor's nose, and then killed him when all he wanted was to go home. If Miguel hadn't despised Ernesto de la Cruz enough before, that alone was enough to make him truly hate the musician he'd once idolized.

Thankfully, Héctor was getting the recognition that he deserved now. Mamá Coco had saved the day, with the letters she kept; letters full of her papá's eternal love… and lyrics, which she had mistaken for poems. Alone, they weren't nearly enough to fully discredit Ernesto, but they did something better: it clouded his innocence. Curious individuals—historians, musicians, librarians, even hobbyists—were intrigued enough to delve into the mysteries surrounding de la Cruz's private life. It wasn't long at all before Héctor Rivera, a nobody from the same small, insignificant town as Ernesto, was proven to be the true lyrical genius.

Miguel knew enough to understand that Héctor wouldn't care about what the world thought of him. All he'd ever wanted was to be with his family. The Riveras had rejected him; or, at least, Mamá Imelda had, and her word was as good as law to both the living and the dead. Left with nothing, his only wish had been to see his daughter one last time before he collapsed into dust and was completely Forgotten. I didn't write that song for the world, he'd told him while they were in the cenote. I wrote it for Coco.

Those songs had been proof of his love, the same way that, later on, shoes became proof of Mamá Imelda's. That was why Miguel had wanted to write a song, to play for him on his first-ever visit to the Land of the Living. They'd put shoes on the ofrenda for him already, but Miguel had wanted to show Héctor something that would matter more: that his family had accepted music back into their hearts. That they accepted him, that he belonged there, and that they'd honor him along with all the other Riveras whose photos were on the ofrenda.

"I know what I want to say, Dante… but how do I say it?" Translating emotions into words was much harder than he'd originally thought. He didn't want to give up just yet, but Héctor would be coming back in a few short months! He was running out of time, but he didn't know how to take the words in his heart and make them words that fit to music. Everything he tried was all jumbled and sounded strange when he tried to sing it, even to himself.

"Ruff." Dante didn't come out from beneath the bed, but his long tail thumped against the nightstand, rattling the drawer's contents. Opening the drawer, Miguel shoved aside the few private things he owned: his box of cool looking rocks, an old sock that had no mate, the bad geography test he conveniently "lost" in the river before Mamá and Papá could see it.

At the very bottom was a scanned copy of Mamá Imelda's ofrenda photo, unfolded and complete with Héctor's face taped back where it belonged. He'd secretly made a photocopy, just in case; Benny and Manny were both wild when they played, and Mamá always joked with Tía Carmen that it would only get worse once Socorro could walk. The last thing he needed was for an accident to ruin the only photo of Héctor in the Land of the Living. Miguel had promised that he'd put up Héctor's photo every year, and he meant it… no matter what.

Leaning back against the wall, Miguel stared at the photo in his hands. Before, he'd always thought Mamá Imelda looked mean in this photo. After all, she wasn't smiling and her eyes looked so… intense. But now, after meeting her in the Land of the Dead, he could see a softness in her face he'd never noticed before. She wasn't cruel, or even cold-natured. In fact, he sometimes wondered if the young Mamá Imelda in the photo was suppressing her smile.

Papá Héctor did smile up at him, full of warmth. He looked a little strange, but Miguel assumed that was because he'd known him first as a skeleton. He could still see the vague shape of the skull he knew beneath the sepia-toned skin, and the hair and eyes—those were the same. At times, it was hard to remember that Héctor had been his family. But looking at the photo, and seeing him standing there in the flesh—the real flesh, not bone—he felt a surge of pride for his young great-great-grandfather.

And Mamá Coco… well, even as a baby, she was still Mamá Coco. Something in his heart ached; loneliness, he realized after a moment. Mamá Coco had joined the others in the Land of the Dead the same week his sister was born; she slipped away peacefully in her sleep, a smile lingering on the wrinkled corners of her lips. Abuelita said she was sure she'd only held on long enough to make sure Mamá and the baby would be alright before passing on.

Miguel had never realized how bittersweet death could be until Mamá Coco's passing. On one hand, he was happy that now she could see her parents, and Papá Julio, and her daughter Tía Victoria any time she wanted. She'd told him a lot of stories about them, on the days her memory was clear. She'd even found a picture of her and Papá Julio when they were young, to show Papá and Mamá how much Miguel resembled his great-grandfather.

But now that she was gone, he had no one to talk to about his adventures. Dante could listen, of course, but dogs couldn't talk back. Only Mamá Coco could be trusted with his stories, and offer her own in turn. Dante couldn't tell him about the time Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe made Tía Victoria cry when they broke her sewing machine trying to find out how the needles worked. Or laugh about the time Abuelita's pet goat got into Tía Rosita's flower garden, and then butted Mamá Imelda to the ground.

"Ay mi familia, oiga me gente…." Miguel mumbled to his great-great-grandparents, wishing more than anything that they were beside him. He knew that they would be able to give him the advice he needed, if only he could hear. What would they tell him? "Canten a coro… ugh!" His skull hit the wall with a dull thud. "Why is this so hard!?"

"Miguel?" A hesitant knock at the door left him scrambling to slip up, the guitar twanging as its arm hit the side of the headboard. The photo fluttered to the floor and he fell after it, sliding on the bedsheets as his weight pried them loose from the mattress. "Miguel?!"

"J-Just a second!" He grabbed the photo from the floor and tossed it back into the nightstand, kicking the drawer shut with his foot before yanking the bedsheets back onto the mattress in a messy pile. He saw the guitar in the corner of his eye and his heart skipped a beat. It was only a knee-jerk reaction; the guitar didn't have the power to get him into trouble anymore, but old habits died hard. "Okay, you can come in now!"

"Is everything alright?" Papá stepped inside, one hand still clutching the doorknob as he looked around the room suspiciously. "I thought I heard something fall." His gaze fell onto the tangled bedsheets, the corners of his mouth tight beneath his mustache. "You weren't playing luchador again, were you? You know what Abuelita said, after the last time." Miguel made a face, reminded of all the feathers he'd had to pick up from Mamá Coco's floor.

"I'm not!" he assured him, grabbing his wrist with a smile that felt a lot guiltier than it should have. "I'm fine." His jaw tightened, hoping that Papá wouldn't ask further. He'd wanted to keep his song a secret from the rest of the family, at least until he had more lyrics. That way, if he failed, no one would know.

"I see." Papá stared at him a long moment, his forehead slowly wrinkling as he thought. Then, clearing his throat, he looked over Miguel's head with a weird grimace. "Am I… interrupting anything?"

"Uh…." Miguel glanced around, scratching his head. That was a weird question; his schoolwork was already finished and packed into his bookbag, ready for Monday. He didn't have any half-finished projects strewn out across the floor, either. Unable to decide what his father was talking about, he shrugged. "Not really?" To his surprise, Papá heaved a quick sigh of relief.

"Okay, good. I thought—well, in that case, do you…uh…." He trailed off, wringing his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his leather apron. "What I mean is, can we talk a minute? Just us guys?" He smiled awkwardly, all teeth and wincing eyes.

"Sure?" Miguel felt a prickle of unease. Am I in trouble? Did they find the fútbol-sized dent in the truck door? Or maybe they knew he still had that geography test after all; did the teacher rat him out? What if it wasn't even anything that he'd done? He had the sudden urge to start confessing everything he was sure his parent's didn't already know about. Gulping, he squeezed his wrist until he could feel his heartbeat, pattering beneath the skin.

Papá nudged the door closed with his shoulder, hands still deep in the pocket of his apron. He turned and stood by the lamp, rocking on his heels as he studied his son. His brows nearly met over his nose, which crinkled as he cast his eyes around the room before landing, as always, back on Miguel.

"Papá?" Miguel fidgeted under the force of his stare. "What's up?"

"Nothing! It's just… I—you, um—hmm." He scratched the bridge of his nose with one fingernail, chewing on his lip. "You… you're getting pretty good with that thing, huh?" he asked suddenly, nodding to the guitar leaning against the wall.

"Yeah!" Miguel grabbed the guitar behind him, bringing it over his head before strumming a few chords. His parents had bought him a year's worth of guitar lessons for his birthday, and he was always happy to show off what he'd been learning. There was a lot more that went into playing a guitar than just copying what he saw on an old VHS tape, after all. If he wanted to be as good as Papá Héctor someday, he'd have to really buckle down and practice.

"My teacher is showing me how to bend the strings, like this." He played a few notes from his practice homework. "See, you have to fret the notes first, and then pluck the strings at the right moment and—" His finger slipped, and he cringed as a sour note rang out instead of the clear bend he'd wanted. "Ouch… I guess I need some more practice."

"But that was cool, right?" Papá rocked onto his tiptoes and stayed there, wingtips creasing at his toes. His mouth worked before he offered a thumbs-up, beaming at him across the room. "That's super cool, dude!" Dude?! Miguel barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes; parents were so lame sometimes, especially when they tried to act young. First Mamá still wanted to kiss him in public, and now Papá too?

"That wasn't cool," he corrected him with a sigh. "That wasn't even the right note."

"Oh… but all that other stuff, what you did before—" He floundered, hands fluttering in the air as he tried to find the words. "It was pretty neat," he concluded, arms flopping to hang at his sides. "Right?"

"It's just basic guitar stuff." Miguel shrugged, stroking his palm over the silent strings. "My teacher says I'm pretty good, for a beginner, but I'm still not good at reading music. I have to practice that before I can get into the good stuff, start learning songs."

"Still, it's neat." Papá came to sit beside him, pushing the guitar out of the way with one finger before wiping his hands on his jeans. "It's… cool," he repeated again, swallowing hard before staring down at his lap. His forehead was still wrinkled, mouth twisting as he fingered the edges of his apron quietly.

Miguel watched his fingers climb up the simple stitching on the apron and back again, noticing for the first time how calloused they were from years of hard work in the shoe shop. They were starting to wrinkle near his knuckles, the veins visible whenever he flexed his fingers. One day, they'll be like Abuelito's, he realized with a start. He couldn't imagine his father's strong hands covered in loose, toughened skin, or dotted with liver spots.

Miguel felt a stirring behind his ribs, a lingering frustration that he recognized, but couldn't name or even explain. It was mirrored in his father's eyes, some unspoken wall between them that kept him from reaching for his hand. He'd felt the same nauseating pressure whenever Papá used to talk about him joining them in the workshop, just like his cousins. Papá had always sounded so happy, never once thinking that his son didn't want to make shoes; it had only made Miguel feel worse for liking music.

"I guess this kind of stuff is a lot more boring for you than it is for me," he admitted slowly, putting aside the guitar and lacing his fingers in his lap. "If you want, we can talk about something else." He wracked his brain for something to add, something that would ease the awkward tension building between them.

"No, it's fine! We can talk about your guitar, but…." Papá scratched his chin this time, as if he felt itchy all over. Maybe he did, in the same way Miguel felt the prickling heat of a blush on his face, running up and down his spine as he tried and failed to think of things to say. Why was it so hard to talk to his father? It had been much easier to find things to tell Mamá Coco. "It's just that I don't know much about music. You'll have to teach me," he joked, his voice too light.

Their eyes met and the feeling in his chest redoubled, pushing against his ribs until he thought he might burst. It was guilt, he realized. He felt bad because Papá wanted him to like shoes, and he wanted Papá to like music. There was no middle ground between the two for them to meet, at least not that he could see. I can't make him happy. The thought made him feel much worse than almost dying ever could.

"I'm sorry, Papá." The words left his mouth before he could stop himself, hanging the air between them. His father's brows arched, the corners of his eyes crinkling in confusion. He tripped over his words in an effort to explain, shrinking from the watery warble stinging in his throat. "I know you wanted me to be a shoemaker, like Abel and Rosa are, and I know you don't like music, and I'm sorry—"

"Hey, hey." Papá reached out, smoothing the bangs from his forehead before cupping his cheek with one broad hand. Miguel sniffed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm. "What on earth are you talking about, mijo? Where's all this coming from?"

"Riveras are shoemakers, through and through! I know that, but I want to be a musician more than a shoemaker and—I just, I know I'm going to let you down. You, Mamá, Abuelita… everyone." He swallowed a hiccup, trying to breathe around the burning lump in his throat. "I'm sorry that… I'm not what you wanted me to be."

"Miguel." Papá's gaze softened. He smoothed his thumb beneath his eye, catching the one rogue tear that had fallen despite his best efforts. "Riveras are shoemakers, but… I don't see any reason we can't be musicians now, too. Do you remember what I told you, last Día de los Muertos?"

"Y-you said my f-family would guide me," he choked weakly, voice trembling. "But—"

"Your family will guide you, Miguel. All of us. And now we know that not all of us are shoemakers after all, don't we?" He combed his fingers through his hair, ruffling gently. "Wherever he is, I'm sure that Papá Héctor is so proud of you for wanting to follow in his footsteps… just I like I am."

"Y-you are?" Papá nodded, drawing him into a tight embrace that left Miguel breathless. The leather was warm against his cheek, his father's voice echoing a deeper timbre in his chest.

"I'm proud of you, mijo. You're not going to let me down just by wanting to be a musician." He squeezed tighter, palms rubbing a soothing circle on his spine. "There's nothing you can do to stop me from loving you, Miguel. And no matter what path you take, I know that you'll make us proud."

Miguel said nothing, burrowing deeper into the warm scent of shoe polish and aftershave, a smile on his face. He could feel the strong, steady pounding of his father's heart through his shirt, beating against his cheekbone and resonating through his body. It was a proud heart, a shoemaker's heart, one that would continue to love him long after it stopped beating.

"That's it," he mumbled against the well-worn pinstripes. Everything clicked into place; it was as though he had an unfinished puzzle, and Papá had given him a piece he hadn't even known was missing. "That's it!" Pulling away, he grabbed his guitar and climbed onto the mattress, striking a triumphant pose. "I've got it!"

"Miguel!" Papá raised his finger, ready to scold him for standing on the bed, but the stern expression slipped into shock as Miguel started to play.

"Ay mi familia, oiga mi gente," he sang, his fingers finding the chords too easily. The music rang out in the room, filling the empty spaces and bringing a breath of life to the dusty afternoon. "Canten a coro, let it be known!" He looked down at his father, lips parted in amazement. The words flowed as easily from him as water from a pitcher, as rain from the sky… as love from a father. "Our love for each other will live on forever, in every beat of my proud corazón!"

"Huh?" Papá was more confused than ever, but even his eyes were alight with the beautiful music. "What song is that?"

"It's mine, I wrote it!" The pride he felt for himself was dwarfed only by what he felt for his family, filling him from the shoes up until he couldn't help but let out a sharp grito. "Gracias, Papá; that's just what I needed!"

"But I didn't do anything," he laughed self-consciously, ears darkening in a blush. Still, at the sound of his son's joy, he couldn't help but grin sheepishly. "Did I?"

"You did, Papá!" Miguel laughed too, bouncing on the bed even though he knew he shouldn't. He couldn't stop himself, and his father was either too shocked or too pleased to stop him, either. "You're a big piece of inspiration for this. Honestly!" he promised, seeing doubt in the man's face. "You all are… the entire family."

Both living and not, he added silently. His mind stretched across an unseen bridge, all the way to where he knew in his heart Papá Héctor still was, still had to be. Him and Mamá Imelda, and the tíos y tías, and Papá Julio and Mamá Coco too: he loved them all so much, and he could feel their love more than ever before, resonating deep within him from years past. There would be plenty of time to work on the lyrics, but the chorus thrummed deep in the heart of every Rivera, shoemaker or not.

He'd just needed to listen a little closer.

Author's Note: Written for Cocos Locos Fluff-Off 2018.