By the light of covered lanterns, they walked together. Through empty streets. Neither able to find words to break the silence. Ernesto's toast hanging between them. The relief still sitting comfortably in his chest, the knowledge that even though he was leaving that there were no hard feelings. That they were still friends.

Suddenly a knife in his stomach. Sharp and twisting and squeezing. He'd never felt a pain like it.

"Ernesto…"

He took a stumbling step. Gasped out his friend's name again. The backs of his fists pressed into the pit of his gut. He felt Ernesto's hand on his back. Unbearably hot. Patting in a comforting motion. A soothing murmur about chorizo. Could it have been the chorizo? His mind flashed back of all the things they'd eaten and drank that day. The chorizo was the only thing Ernesto hadn't shared in… Then with a deft movement, Ernesto pulled his guitar case free. Left him with an empty hand to brace against his stomach. Long fingers prodding. Trying to find and soothe the source of the pain.

His suitcase fell from his other hand. Crashed open on the pavement. He was only vaguely aware of his clothes spilling on the ground. Of the small red notebook bouncing once then settling back into the case. All he could think of was the pain. His world narrowed to pinpoints. Pain. Step. Pain. Gasp. Pain.

The bitter taste of cheap tequila rising in the back of his throat. The tearing hurt of his chest as he tried to draw in breath. The increasingly irregular pounding of his own heart thumping in his chest, his wrists, his neck, his ears.

He looked up at the sky. Saw the moon. Felt a fleeting flash of remorse that almost, but not quite, silenced the hurt. In Santa Cecilia his girl would be looking out the window. At the same moon. Or the clouded sky. Singing and resting her chin in her hands. Dark braids with bright ribbons. Brown eyes shining. A small smile beneath a tiny nose.

His girl.

His Coco.

Expecting him to be singing along. If only he could. If only this pain wasn't paralysing him so.

He slumped onto the road. Felt his scalp meet the sharp corner of a raised stone. Felt warm blood trickle from the wound. Tried to curl around the hurt in his gut. Found himself unable to move.

And as the light faded from his vision and everything went black, his mind revolved around his girls. The two he had left behind. The two he had desperately wanted to return home to. The two he would never see ever again.

What awful luck.

Waking up was a surprise. A not altogether unpleasant one. He wasn't in pain, for one. His stomach felt fine. No sign of that terrible pain that had been there only a few short moments before. He let out a low sigh. Bent his arm. Tried to rest his hand on his stomach. But where before his skin had always met flesh, now it fell through. Bumped against his spine with a bony clunk.

That was enough to shoot him to his feet. He looked down with wide eyes. White bone, articulated with air and nothing else, met his gaze. He pulled his shirt up. Stared with horror at the gap between the bottom of his ribs and the bony arcs of his pelvis.

"Welcome to the Land of the Dead!" An official looking woman in a blue uniform approached him. Handed him a form. "If you could fill out your name, mode of death and any family members we can connect you to."

"I'm dead?" He reached out. Watched with an odd detachment as long white finger bones closed around the clipboard and gripped the pen. He could feel it. The sensation beneath his fingers. How could he feel with no skin?

"Yes, señor. Very much so." She moved on. Brushed past him. Onto another equally horrified looking skeleton.

Their faces were not just skulls. There was a bony face on top, almost. Decorated with the swirls and dots of decorated sugar skulls. Lips made of bone and expressive eyebrow ridges. Eyes in sockets of darkness with eyelids of fluid blackness. It should have been terrifying, but it wasn't somehow.

He looked at the form. Some of this was easy. Name, fine. Date of death, cool. Age of death, sure. Mode of death? Remembering the pain, remembering Ernesto's suggestion, he wrote 'Food poisoning'. Paused, added a dash and 'Chorizo' to the end.

Then came the really hard bit.

"Dead family," he murmured. Tapped the pen on the clipboard. Pursed bony lips and narrowed his eyes. Did he have any dead family? He wasn't sure. He couldn't even remember his papa's name. It had been so long. Ernesto, Imelda and Coco were his only real family. Felipe and Óscar too, he supposed. And they were all still alive.

Uncertain, he left it blank. Scribbled in the rest. Handed the form back to the woman. She flipped through it, read through his info.

"Ah, a musician."

"Yes." Somewhat embarrassed. She smiled at him, and though the sight was disconcerting he found it infinitely comforting as well.

"You will be pleased to know that music is very important in the Land of the Dead. We'll be sure to find a place for you in the Arts District. What sort of music did you play?"

"Uh…all sorts?" He returned her smile, unable to help himself. "I played the guitar mostly."

"Well, here's hoping your family leaves one as an offering next Día de Muertos." She laughed. He joined in, but uncertainly. "In the meantime you'll have to borrow one, señor. Apologies for that."

He nodded. Blinked rapidly as she ushered him through metal gates beneath a sign that said 'New Arrivals'. Into a lobby marked with 'Department of Family Reunions'. There were bells ringing. Skeletons running through the gates. Embracing people who were stumbling in around him. There were tears and for a moment Héctor wondered how they could cry. Where the tears came from. But that thought was quickly silenced as he wandered along through the lobby. Pushed out the other side. Another officer, this one a gentleman with silver hair, pointed him towards the Arts District. For a moment the stacked buildings and glimmering lights overwhelmed him, but he forced himself to press on. Found himself in a narrow street lined with warehouses. Each lit from within by coloured lights. From some the sound of music rolled, from others only silence. Those were the doors stained with paint and dusted with plaster.

He could almost be at home here. But he had no idea where to turn. Was lost in a maze of houses and workshops. Not knowing where he would be welcome.

As the night wore on he found himself a comfortable seat. Beneath a street lamp that glowed with soft orange light. Started going through his pockets.

In one he found his travel documents. A photo of his own smiling face. He touched it gently. Followed the line of his cheeks, the length of his nose. Pressed a finger briefly on the dimple in his left cheek. Lifted his hand. Traced the new topography of his own face. Felt the high cheekbones. Dipped a finger in the empty cavity where his nose had sat. The sharp point of his chin. Realised he had hair. His goatee. The ridges beneath his fingertips were familiar and yet achingly different.

He shook it off. He was never getting his old face back. He was dead. And in the Land of the Dead there were only skeletons. He would have to get used to it.

Another pocket. This one holding a few meagre pesos. All of the money he'd had in the world. Enough for one train ticket back to Santa Cecilia. Everything else he had made had gone straight back to Imelda. Wrapped in letters of song lyrics, poems, and updates.

With the thought of his wife he started digging through his pockets with renewed vigour. Moving with frantic, nervous energy. Spilling paper and pencils and scraps of lint onto the cobblestones. But there was no other photograph there. He must've packed it in his suitcase, along with his notebook. The picture of his girls. The one he'd insisted they sat for before he left.

His detached veneer cracked. His world shattered around him. Unable to understand, he leaned forward, heaving. Pulled at his hair and squeezed his eyes tight and screamed his grief. That photo was the one thing he really wanted in that moment. To see Imelda's stony countenance, amusement just visible beneath like a thread of gold. To see Coco's enthusiastic grin, her giggle almost audible just looking at her face. The slight blurring around her face where they hadn't been able to keep her still.

It couldn't be gone. He couldn't be here, alone, with nothing of his family. It wasn't fair.

"You okay, chamaco?"

A croaky voice. A voice that spoke of a lifetime of cigarettes and whiskey. He looked up and saw a bald skeleton approaching. His shirt was open, revealing his ribs and a spine that curved to the left.

"My family…" Héctor gestured helplessly at the paper he'd pulled from his pockets. At the photo of his own dumb living face. "I don't have anything."

"Ah buck up, kiddo, you'll see them soon. You've missed it this year, but Día de Muertos is never too far away." The skeleton approached, held out a hand. "José."

"Héctor." An tentative handshake. Unable to stop a grimace pulling at his lips.

"You're very new, huh? Not used to the bones yet." José grinned. "Come on, let's find you a place to settle in. We'll get you everything you need until your first offering."

Still uncertain, Héctor scooped the paper back into his pockets. Considered the photo of his face and tucked it into his jacket. Followed José through winding streets and to a welcoming boarding house. A place for new spirits to rest until they found their place in the Land of the Dead.