When the time is right, you'll figure it out.

For days on end, Imelda had labored silently under the weight of those words. Lucía had assured her that she would make the right decision, but… when would the time be right? What path should she take? To her shock, she found that she could not put the same faith in herself. In life, she had been confident in (almost) every decision; now, she was second-guessing herself at every turn.

Do I give him—us—another chance? Do I deserve another chance?

The latter question was linked to the former by guilt; it ate at her continuously, offering no outlet or reprieve. No matter where her thoughts wandered, they circled back to that one crucial point, the anchor around which her thoughts sloshed like so many waves in a turbulent sea: remorse.

She was the one who had refused to put his picture on the ofrenda. She was the one who would not allow Coco to remember her own father, to deny her family's curiosity, to banish music from their lives all in an effort to ward off the pangs of a broken heart. All that had happened to Héctor in this place, the state to which he had eventually fallen, were the direct results of her own actions. Could such a sin, even unknown and unknowable, ever be truly redeemed?

And why— she asked herself, in these moments of introspection— why had she never bothered to find out what happened to him? Why had she not searched harder, demanded more? For decades she had shoved every lingering doubt, every searching question, every tear to the back of her mind. But now, in the darkness of her bedroom, they came to light one by one. The rage that had taken center stage for so many years now collapsed into regret, burning cinders crumbling beneath the weight of built up ash.

As a living woman, watching the years etch lines into her face and twist gray into her locks, it had been easier to see the cold, independent matron she thought she was. Now, she saw the truth: a heartbroken, jilted young woman, staring out at her from an old woman's weary bones.

Do you still love him? As pertinent a question as it was, it ought to have had an easy answer. True, she had blurted out those words in front of Ernesto, in a moment of passion. Héctor had been the love of her life. There had been other hopeful men, of course; there had always been those who caught a glimpse of the beautiful face behind the stern frown. Some of them had even been kind to her, and gentle with her Coco. There were a rare few that, if she had let herself, she might have even learned to love.

But as handsome as they were, and as gentle as they seemed… they were never right, were they? No man seemed to meet her lofty standards. This one was too short, that one too tall; this one too brawny, that one too spindly. Others had stubby fingers, too much hair, too little hair, too deep a voice—the list went on and on. After some time, she realized that she was comparing all of them to Héctor. And when they eventually made their advances known, she could never quite bring herself to respond in kind.

I'm sorry, but… I am married.

I have a husband, you know.

Even back then, they had sounded more like excuses. Perhaps that was what she had meant them to be. Was it because she had never learned of her husband's fate? Had a small part of her still been holding onto some lingering ember of hope? Had she been waiting for him, all these years?

All these questions, yet no answers.

Either you love him or you don't.

It's complicated….

He hurt me.

I know.

I hurt him.

I know that, too.

The same conversation, running circles in her mind until she was dizzy and exhausted from it all. Given enough time, she would be nursing a migraine for sure.

Why do you want him back?

I miss him.

She did miss him, more than she cared to admit. It had taken seeing him—truly seeing him—for her to realize it. His vice, his expressions, his mannerisms: all so familiar, despite lacking skin and muscle.

How many times must I turn him away? she had once asked herself. Now the question was flipped, transfigured: how many times will he allow himself to be turned away? Am I repeating the same mistakes again? Am I willing to take a chance?

How could she?! Chances was for the young, the inexperienced! Chances were for those who believed that a world could be changed overnight, for those who still believed in fairytales and romance and rose-tinted glasses! An old woman ought to be out of chances, set in her ways, content with the way things were, rather than what they could be.

I need… Pepita.

As a normal housecat, Pepita had been a loyal and loving companion. Somehow living far beyond a cat's usual lifespan, she had been a source of affection and comfort during Imelda's living years. She told Pepita everything, even those things she could not bear to tell another living soul. What a joy it had been to find her again in the Land of the Dead, to know that her Pepita was her spirit guide! Of course, she was too big to come inside the house now, and she certainly couldn't fit on a sofa cushion the way she used to. But she was still a wonderful listener, all the same.

Imelda opened the window quietly, leaning out into the night. The beat of the city was the same as ever, though for once the quiet sounds of her neighborhood seemed to overpower the distant bass thud and laughter. She took a deep breath, the night air filling her skull but doing little to help relax her.

"Pepita?" She clicked her tongue, drumming her fingers on the windowsill. Normally, that would be enough to bring the giant cat from her resting place. Tonight, however, there was no answering grumble. "Pepita?" she ventured louder, peering furtively into the night. "Where on earth could she be?"

It wasn't like Pepita to leave the hacienda at night. Then again, she had once been a housecat; had she developed a nostalgic sense of wanderlust? Imelda scoffed to herself, relacing her boots; if she could not find her by calling, she'd just have to go out and take a look. With any luck, Pepita would simply be ignoring her owner—as cats were often wont to do. No matter where she was, it wouldn't be too hard to find her.

Her bedroom door opened with a creak. She froze, listening furtively to the quiet sounds of her resting family; it would not do to wake them up and find her sneaking out. Creeping slowly down the corridor, one hand on the wall, she made her way down the staircase step by step. The kitchen sink dripped infrequently, the clock in the front parlor striking one o' clock with a whir of gears. Each footstep sounded like a gunshot to her ears. Imelda felt for the spare key by the back door, slipping it into the pocket of her dress before venturing outdoors.

"Pe-pi-ta!" she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. The courtyard was deserted, murky shadows shifting in the breeze. Clouds crept over the moon, but there was nowhere to hide. The cat was simply not there. "Oh, where is she?" Imelda grumbled, heading for the iron back gate. It opened with a rusty groan. She paused again, glancing quickly towards the silent house; nothing stirred.

Which way should I go? The other houses along the street were quiet, their occupants either enjoying the night or—more likely—asleep in their beds. Looking down both sides of the narrow alleyway, Imelda reluctantly went in the direction of the more crowded street. It was wider, and would better suit a creature like her alebrije. Each rooftop was inspected, each nook and cranny scrutinized for even a single strand of technicolor fur.

She had walked the length of the street and was about to give up when one of her calls finally had a response; a soft growl, rumbling in the night, seemed to skirt right up her backbone.

"There you are!" Pepita sat at the opposite end of the alley, twisting her head to peer one giant eye through the gap between the buildings. "Come on," she crooned, clicking her tongue and snapping her fingers. "Come to Mamá." Pepita purred, the sound more like a jet engine in the enclosed space. The alebrije blinked at her slowly, stretching with a yawn before disappearing around the corner. "No—!" Imelda swallowed a groan, rolling her eyes as she raced to follow. Why did cats never want to do the one thing you asked of them?

"Where do you think you're going?" Pepita was at the crest of the hill now, looking down at her; her long tail swished in quick, mischievous flicks. Imelda snapped her fingers sharply, attempting to look as stern as possible. "Come here!" Pepita purred again, turning tail and disappearing around the bend.

"Get back here!" Imelda shouted as loudly as she dared, picking up her skirts to give chase. Thankfully, the streets were mostly abandoned at this time of night. Traffic lights flashed for no one, the sidewalks and streets empty. Empty trolleys zipped by overhead, creaking on their wires as they kept their eternal timetable for those few night owls still up and about.

"Pepita?" There was no answer, but a large shadow danced across the windows of a building on her left. By the time she managed to catch up, the large cat was standing in the center of the wide bridge above Shantytown. Pepita breathed in some of the lingering Shanty dust and sneezed, shaking her head with a huff. Large eyes turned in her direction, waiting until Imelda was almost in reach before finally moving. With one leap she was across the bridge, loping in the direction of the plaza.

"Ay!" Imelda habitually tried to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Slow down," she panted, stumbling after her blindly. "I can't… keep up… the way I used to…" A small part of her wished that someone would come along, if only to witness her plight. Police officer, partygoer, even a bumbling drunkard: at this point, she'd be happy to see anyone willing to help chase down the wayward alebrije.

She slowed to a stop at the main entrance of the plaza, eyes narrowed as she searched for her quarry. Moonlight shone through the thin branches of the neatly-pruned trees, light spilling from upstairs windows to throw the plaza into a dim, eerie twilight. The doors to the bar were closed, but raucous laughter and the tinkling of glass could be heard from within. Shadows melded and meshed at the hazy windows, a strange puppet show through half-broken shutters.

"Pepita?" she whispered, shrinking down inside her skirts as she kept to the outermost buildings. The fountain bubbled quietly, and the open space seemed mostly harmless, and yet… she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone in the night. "Pep—!"

The strum of a guitar, a few wobbly chords followed by the dull twang of a sour note. Both hands flew to her mouth and she pressed herself against the cracked plaster, trying to make herself as small as possible. Whoever it was, she only hoped that she'd be able to see them before they saw her.

There! On a creaky old bench outside the bar, half-hidden in shadow, his back against the time-hewn bricks—

Of course it would be Héctor! Imelda let her hands fall, jaw clenched to the point of pain as she wedged herself into the gap between a hat shop and an alebrije grooming salon. Just my luck! Though perhaps it was luck, in a sense; at the very least, he had a sense of propriety.

Héctor paused mid-strum to drink from a half-empty bottle of what looked like tequila, throwing his head back with a gulp before wiping his mouth on his forearm. He fixed his fingering and began a small, meandering tune. Imelda pressed her cheek to the cool plaster as she watched him, a little knot of concern working its way into her throat. He seemed… frailer by moonlight, lingering cracks standing out in stark relief against unblemished bone. She knew that it would take time for memories to heal the fissures, but… how long? How long would it be before his bones shone as white as hers, or her family's?

"Not going to say hello?" His hair fell into his eyes, but she didn't need to see them to know that he was despondent. It was in the slump of his shoulders, the listless slide of his fingers against the strings. Imelda stiffened, shrinking further into gap between the buildings. How could he possible see her?

A puff of warm air wafted against her spine, stirring the loose hairs at her nape. She turned to see Pepita crouched behind her, peering into the gap from the breezeway on the other side. Pepita cocked her head, tail swinging in a contented arc wide enough to brush the buildings on either side of the street. Oh, so now you decide to come?

"Imelda?" Héctor stared in her direction, eyes catching the light as he searched the shadows. He sighed, slumping against the bench with a drunken roll of his shoulders. "I don't blame you," he called out in her general direction, the edge of a slur muddying his words. "I wouldn't want to talk to me, either."

Imelda stifled an annoyed hiss, clicking her tongue in disapproval. She could probably sneak away, but pride—amongst other things—plucked at her heartstrings. Imelda Rivera hid from no one… well, except him. Multiple times, in fact. But that was then, and this was now. There was nothing to be done except salvage what was left of her dignity and face him head-on.

I'm not ready for this. The smallest of shivers raced through her bones.

It's a bit late for that, isn't it? If not now, when?

"Don't be so dramatic, Héctor." She stepped into the light, chin held high as she strode briskly across the plaza. Even so, her bravado was not quite enough to bring her to his side; she stopped a few yards from the bar, lingering near a flowerbox. He plucked a few strings, not bothering to look in her direction. "I didn't realize you'd be here."

"I'm here. Sometimes." He strummed a chord, jerking his head towards the bar door. "Toño's my friend."

"Who?"

"The guy who owns this place. He doesn't mind if I hang around."

"Oh." She looked around the empty plaza, crossing her arms absently. "A little late for a performance, isn't it?" She cleared her throat, glaring pointedly at the bottle balanced on his femur. "Shouldn't you be asleep by now?"

"Shouldn't you?" He frowned. "I don't sleep all that much. It's not like we need to."

"Even so…."

"Well? Why are you out so late? It's no good for a lady to walk the streets by herself."

"I'm not walking the— besides, I have Pepita with me." Héctor picked up the bottle, swishing the contents around before letting out a low breath.

"Go home, mi amor." He smiled at the tequila. "Get some rest. There's nothing here for you, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He leveled the guitar in his hands, starting a new tune. The twisting melody kept her feet glued to the paved stones, a faint memory sparking in the recess of her mind. This song… why was it familiar to her? No lyrics came to mind, no words to match the rising pitch that fell just as quickly, two interlocking melodies chasing one another in circles. Perhaps it was one of the half-finished songs he used to practice when he couldn't sleep, running through the chords like clockwork during one of his so-called brainstorming sessions.

"What's wrong?" He paused, lifting his eyes to hers. "Were you trying to find me or something?"

"I already told you: I didn't know you'd be here tonight."

"Hmm. Well." Héctor shrugged, fingers tracing over the wooden body of the guitar. "Don't let me keep you from your… midnight stroll."

"Fine." She turned away, and even managed a step or two in the opposite direction. Even if she had wanted to speak with him, it wasn't the time nor the place. She was exhausted, and he was half-drunk, and they were supposed to be nothing more than old friends. But she'd never been one for making good choices, at least where he was involved.

"Héctor." Imelda turned back, hands clenching into fists at her side. "Do you… do you still love me?"

His hands tightened on the guitar.

"Por supuesto." His answer was quiet, so very unlike him. "You're my wife. Why wouldn't I love you?"

"That's not a good enough reason to—"

"And why shouldn't I love you?" He glared at her, toes tapping a quick rhythm on the stone beneath the bench. "Why even ask that sort of question? You knew the answer already, Imelda."

"No, I didn't." He drew himself up to full height, pushing the bangs out of his eyes with a scowl. Imelda pressed her fists against the dip in her spine, forcing herself to remain still as he approached. It was only Héctor, after all; the eyes that stared out at her from those deep sockets were his, even if they were nothing more than glass imitations.

"If I didn't love you, why bother with any of it?" It was a sensible question, one she probably should have thought of herself. "Why bother to meet you when you died? To send you all those letters? To visit your house every day for weeks? Months?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I meant—!" She set her jaw, a knot of frustration forming at the base of her throat. Still, if she was upset, there was no one to blame but herself. He would have let her walk away, but she chose to stay. "How can you possibly still love me? You don't even know me! You're looking for the wife you left a hundred years ago, and I'm not—"

"Who said I'm looking for anyone!?" He shook his head in dismay. "All I've ever wanted is you, Imelda. I wanted you a hundred years ago, and fifty years ago, and five years ago, and five months ago. I don't care who you think you are. You changed: so what?" he laughed, the sound too high to be natural. "Do you think I'm the man you married? Do you not see that I've had a lifetime without you, too?"

"But you—"

"I died!" He shouted, throwing up his hands. "There it is! I died, and do you know what happened? I woke up here!" He gestured to the City of the Dead, the spires rising up all around them into the misty clouds. "I died young, Imelda, but I'm not young. I'm still your age in here," he insisted, tapping his skull with one finger. "I'm still as old as you are. I've still seen as much as you have, only in a different place."

"Héctor…" she trailed off, fingers pressed to her lips.

"It counts for something, Imelda. It does."

"I know it does! It just—"

"Do I look like the man that left on that train?"

"Yes!"

"How?!" He yanked at his vest, ripping open the two halves to show her his ribcage. "In case you haven't noticed, I am a skeleton!"

"What does it matter?!" she shouted back, pointing at his skull. It was all there, just as it had been in life: the tapered chin, the sharp cheekbones, the large eyes, the gold tooth. "To me, you're the same!" The words rang out sharply, echoing in the empty plaza. She clapped a hand over her mouth, a phantom heat rising to her cheeks.

What am I thinking!? It's the middle of the night! Héctor didn't seem as concerned about disturbing the peace. He stood before her, swaying slightly as he let his arms fall.

"There it is," he repeated quietly, eyes searching her face. "To me, you're the same."

"Héctor—" All at once, it felt as though all her energy left in a single breath. She felt scoured inside, gaping and empty; it was all she could do to stagger to the bench, brushing aside the guitar before tucking her skirts beneath her and slumping against the wooden slats. The heels of her palms were cool against her forehead, eyes burning with unshed tears.

Héctor took a seat on the other side of the bench, an arm's length further separated by the guitar and the tequila. He crossed his arms, legs stretched out in front of him, sneaking glances whenever he thought she wasn't looking. They sat in tense silence, neither knowing what to say. The bar pulsed with life at their backs, a few stray leaves skittering across the plaza stones.

"The photo," he grunted, picking at a stray thread on his vest. "It was for you, you know."

"The… photo?" She lifted her head. "The one Ernesto stole?"

"Yeah." He took off the hat, running a hand through his hair until it stood on end. "I was going to send it to you in my next letter, but I thought you'd appreciate the real thing more. That's why it was in my pocket, the night I died." He let out a hollow chuckle. "If only I'd been smart enough to think to write on the back. Who knows what would have happened? At least someone might have eventually figured out who I was."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm not sure it would have mattered." Imelda smoothed out her skirts with a sigh. "I was already so angry with you for not coming back… even if you had managed to make it home, there's no telling what I would have done."

"Hey, I'd have been all right. I'd gotten pretty good at finding places to sleep by that time." His joke fell flat, but he didn't seem to care. "At least tell me this much: even knowing how it ends up, would you still do it again?"

"I… yes. Because you gave me Socorro." Any suffering on her part paled in comparison to a life with her beloved daughter. Héctor nodded.

"Coco." He smiled. "The one thing in my life I managed to get right."

"Por Dios, Héctor… what else am I supposed to say?" Imelda fisted her skirts in both hands, the well-worn folds slipping between her fingers as she cleared her throat. "You were the love of my life, but we barely had a life together! At least Coco…" To her embarrassment, her voice cracked with tears. "At least I had her to keep me strong. But I should have had you, too."

"You should have," he agreed. "But I thought I was doing what was right by you both. I thought… I thought that you'd thank me, later."

"You thought I'd thank you?" she repeated incredulously. "Even after I asked you time and time again to stay?!"

"I don't know how to explain it—"

"Try!" She winced, wishing that she still had a tongue to bite. Already she was getting worked up again, her voice rising to a shrill screech. She swallowed, trying again in a calmer voice, "Try to explain. I'll listen." Héctor let out a low breath, fingers drumming on his knees.

"It was… Eliseo."

"Papá?" Imelda felt her jaw drop. "What does he have to do with any of this?"

"He took me aside one day, just us, and told me that he was sick. And… and that he wasn't going to get better. He asked me to go into business with him, and take over the quarry when he died. I don't think he had much faith in your brothers taking over the family business," he admitted sheepishly. "I mean, could you imagine either of them becoming stonemasons?"

"No," she had to chuckle. "I can't."

"Meanwhile, I was young, a quick learner, not afraid of hard work, married into the family: the perfect candidate, right?" He gazed at the fountain, eyes following the water as it cascaded into the stone base. "But Ernesto said that we'd make more money on the road in two months than I could in two years as a mason. And I'm not afraid to admit that I was proud of my talents. I wanted the chance to see if I could do something with them, and I thought that if I could provide for you and Coco while still doing something that I loved, it would be worth it in the end."

"You silly man." She shook her head. "I could have helped you. I could have learned to make shoes while you played for everyone."

"Don't you see? I didn't want you to work. What kind of man needs his wife to help him keep a roof over their heads? I wanted to do it on my own, because… because I didn't want anyone saying that you were a fool to marry me."

"They said a lot worse after you left," she huffed. "They said my temper must have ran you off."

"You know, I never could figure out what people meant by that." He frowned. "You're not mean, you're… feisty! You're passionate! It's one of the things I love best about you."

"Héctor!"

"I mean it! And you haven't changed, you still got it. You… you're really something else, Imelda. You always have been." She couldn't stop the smile from stretching across her face, a bubble of warmth radiating through her from the chest outwards.

"Thank you." Here it was, the same shyness that had claimed her at the Sunrise Spectacular. It was a feeling that she only associated with him; Héctor was the only man who could ever manage to disarm her with nothing more than words. It was the songwriter in him, weaving brilliant melodies that made her want to melt where she sat. But it was also dangerous, for her; she valued his sincerity far more than any half-stammered flirting or false bravado.

"I think I'm drunk," he said suddenly, knuckles beating a rapid tempo on the arm of the bench. "That's probably the only reason I feel brave enough to say this, and you can hit me with your shoe if you want to, but… what if we're not too old for love?"

"What?"

"You said that this is all that's left for people like us. But if this is all there is, we can make whatever we want of it, can't we?" He gestured vaguely at the space between them. "Let's start over, you and me. Who's going to tell us not to? Oscar? Felipe? I could take them both with one hand behind my back."

Imelda averted her eyes, embarrassed and confused and timid all at once. Did he really want to start from the very beginning, as if they'd never been married at all? It wasn't impossible, perhaps, but it would involve a very big leap of faith on her part. What if the gap was still too wide? What if she wasn't ready? What if—

"Listen," Héctor said, taking her silence as a rejection, "you said yourself that I didn't know enough of you to love you. So… I want to fall in love with you again. I think it would be fun. But if you don't want to, I understand," he added quickly. "If you really want to be friends, and nothing more, than I'll stop bothering you. Even a guy like me knows better than to pester a lady when she's not interested."

"You pestered me for an entire year before climbing into my window!" she snapped, avoiding an answer for the moment.

"But you were interested."

Tch. He has a point. She smoothed down her bun, wishing that her hair was down so that she could wind her hands through it as she thought. She settled with patting down her dress, sitting on her hands so that she wouldn't wring them in her lap.

"Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?" Why was she even entertaining this option? She was an old woman! But… he was an old man, no matter how young he looked, and perhaps her mind was addled by the late hour, and she really wished that she could use being drunk as an excuse, too.

"What if I call on you tomorrow? And you don't hide upstairs for a change."

"How did you—!" She didn't even have to finish the question, the answer evident in his smile. That family of mine! Of course they can't keep a secret to save their lives, and of course he'd go along with anything they said! He's too polite to do otherwise! "Hmph!"

"Say… two o' clock? I'll take you to one of my favorite spots; it'll be a nice little walk."

"I-I suppose it couldn't hurt. But you have to promise that you'll restrain yourself. And go slow!" she admonished, shaking her head. "I'm still not sure this is a good idea…."

"If we don't like it, we don't have to do it anymore. At least we can tell Coco that we tried." He cleared his throat, attempting a more suave tone. "The real question is if you'll be able to keep your hands off me; I've been told I'm quite handsome when I get cleaned up."

"And just who has told you that?"

"My wife."

"Hmph! It sounds like your wife needs her eyes checked." She stood, glancing up at the pale night. By the time she managed to get herself home and in bed, it would be nearly dawn. "I'm going home, Héctor. I'll see you tomorrow… or, later today."

"If we're starting over, and you agreed to a date, does this mean I get a kiss?" She looked over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at him. "S-Slow, right. My apologies. After all, I still need to climb a trellis and…uh…." He shrank down into himself as she approached, his smile faltering. "You know, that was my second bottle, and I think it might be time to go and lie down—"

"Héctor… be quiet." His stammering trailed off as she put a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. Imelda took his skull in both hands, ignoring his startled yelp as she yanked it from his neck. She pressed her lips—or what passed for lips—to his cheek quickly, leaving the perfect lipstick outline atop the golden marks.

"I'm going home," she repeated, dropping his skull into his lap and turning on her heel in a swish of skirts. Outwardly she was still the stern matron, but inside a rush of affection lit her up from the bones out. It settled behind her ribs, pulsating in the spot where her heart had once been.

"Wow," he murmured hoarsely behind her. "I'm dreaming."

"For your sake, I hope not." She set off briskly, fighting the urge to look back at him yet again. "Goodbye, Héctor."

"Uh-huh…" he mumbled, starstruck. "Uh—that is—I mean, I'll see you this afternoon!"

Pepita was waiting patiently at the plaza entrance, washing her whiskers with broad sweeps of her tongue. She waited until she passed the entrance before looking back; Héctor caught her eye, giving her a little wave from the bench. Flustered, she returned the gesture, and all but ran onto the main thoroughfare. Pepita followed obediently, trotting behind her mistress as though she would have never dreamed of running away.

The house was quiet when she unlocked the door, putting the spare key back on the wall. The clock chimed twice, whirring tirelessly in its endless march. She crept back upstairs, closing her bedroom door and slipping into her nightgown in a daze. For a moment she felt as though she were caught between two halves of a rope, pulled in both direction with no clue how she was to break free. And then it snapped, and she realized just what she had done.

I kissed Héctor. He's coming this afternoon to take me on a date. As though I'm a child again, a… young lady….

She put her trembling fingers to her mouth and found that she was smiling—no, laughing, silent laughter that was not at all unlike tears.