Guitar gripped tightly in hand, Miguel tiptoed into his parent's room, before slowly and silently closing the door behind him. His mother was already inside, seated in a chair made of woven straw beside the bed where Bebé Coco slept, her thin frame nearly swallowed by the swaths of blankets and pillows enveloping her from the chin down. Sweat clung to her forehead as she tossed fitfully, her breaths coming in short, distressed gasps that tore at Miguel's heart. A wet cloth and his mother's hand draped her brow, but her eyes remained stubbornly closed. It wasn't until Miguel had situated himself on the stool beside his mother and strummed the first chord of Socorro's favorite lullaby that her lids flew open with to reveal a gaze made bleary and unfocused with fever, but as she struggled to sit up, he placed a palm on her chest and applied a gentle pressure to remind her body how much it needed rest. It seemed to get the message, too, because she stilled without complaint, though her bright brown eyes never left his.

They both knew, or at least Miguel thought she did, that today was his first performance as the official member of a Mariachi band. It consisted mostly of neighborhood kids, a pair of cousins named Carlos and Esteban, and a boy named Alejandro. He'd moved to Santa Cecilia with his mom about six months after Miguel's adventure in the Land of the Dead, and they'd quickly hit it off after Alejandro happened upon Miguel practicing his guitar after school and revealed that he harbored some talent for the instrument, as well. He'd also admitted to having been an ardent fan of De La Cruz, "before he turned out to be a no good murderer, of course."

A rueful smile tugged at the corner of Miguel's mouth as he thought about the friends waiting for him outside, but they were just going to have to wait. Bebé Coco had wanted so badly to attend his first performance, and he'd wanted her there just as much. Though lacking a complete understanding for the cause of his excitement, she'd shared it with enthusiasm, to the extent of counting down the days with him and watching him rehearse until Miguel was certain that she could (and likely did) murmur his lyrics in her sleep. She was, without question, his most dedicated fan, so if she couldn't attend the performance, he'd just have to bring the show to her.

The strings pressed against calloused fingertips as his hands deftly formed the first chord. He could feel her eyes on him, could hear the sharp inhale that followed the first thrum, and as it always did when he sang her this lullaby, the scents and sounds and colors of the room began to wake. It always started out sleepy, with oranges and crimsons that became a little warmer, a little more vibrant, the sweetness of cinnamon tickling their nose, but when the pair of them found harmony in the rise and fall of the notes, the rest of the world didn't just join them in song - it became a part of it.

This time, though, the chances of this lullaby turning into a duet were looking slim, and as though to remind Socorro not to try it, their mother arced a stern brow the instant her dry lips parted, causing her mouth snap shut with an audible click.

Though he fought down a fond smile at the resulting fuming pout, Miguel started to sing, his voice whisper-soft and gentle, "Remember me." It was a promise. A promise that he would never forget how much his family loved him, and, "though I have to say goodbye," he would always find a way to return. "Remember me." His thoughts drifted to Papá Hector and Mamá Coco, as they always did. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, he hoped that they were happy. No, that wasn't right. He knew they were. They had to be. His heart told him so.

A glance at the sick little girl on the bed showed him exactly what he'd expected – his hermanita had her apple cheeks inflated with protest. Sweat-damp hair clung to the back of her neck like wet down, and frustrated tears gathered at the corners of her gleaming brown eyes. He paused only for a moment to wipe some of those beaded tears away, "Don't let it make you cry." And she clung to his hand, stubbornly refusing to let go until he stopped playing entirely, after which she released him with almost comical timing. Falling back into the rhythm for his most captive audience, he sang with a bright smile, "For even if I'm far away, I hold you in my heart. I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart." He rose from the stool, still playing with the instrument held steady against his chest, and pressed his forehead to the wet cloth over her brow. The heat seeping from her skin could be felt through the contact. "Remember me, though I have to travel far. Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar." She sniffled pitifully, already feeling miserable, and now even more so because he was leaving her behind, and Miguel would have given anything to make her well again, but there would be other shows, plenty of them, and she could attend them all once she got better. Kids got stomach bugs and colds all the time, he knew. Even he'd gotten sick more than a handful of times when he was her age, but she was so young and small and this was the first time he'd ever seen her sick. "Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be." Slowly, her tiny hands came up to wrap around his neck, and she was strong. Probably the strongest toddler in all of Santa Cecilia. "Until you're in my arms again," and it was at this point that he tapped her nose, drawing out a sunrise smile, and thus causing enough of a distraction to let him slip away from her grip, as he put some distance between them with an apologetic expression. Through the window, he could hear his bandmates calling him.

And so like it was just the two of them in the room, Miguel sang the last words of the lullaby with a strength and clarity that rivaled the town's church bell, "Remember me."

Throughout the lullaby, he'd watched her mouth form familiar shapes as she followed along, heard the raspy wisp of her voice struggling past a throat scraped raw from coughing fits. Once the final reverberation had faded, Miguel allowed the base of the white guitar to fall against his side, as he offered a small bow to his sister and his mother, and with a crooked grin, said, "Next time, when you're feeling better, Bebé Coco, we'll make sure it's a proper duet." The way it was always meant to be.

She reached for him with a cry when he stepped towards the door. Unsure of what to do, Miguel cast a despairing look at his mother, who rose from her seat to smooth out the wrinkles on Coco's cloth before bending down to softly whisper something in her ear as she pulled the dislodged quilt over her chest.

Though a nearly inaudible whimper promptly broke Miguel's heart, Socorro obediently closed her eyes, allowing exhaustion to quickly and effortlessly tug her towards blissful, dreamless sleep. After casting one last lingering look at her daughter, Mamá Luisa rose to regard him, affection and pride shining in her gaze.

Still uncertain, Miguel straddled the threshold, half in and out of the bedroom, though he made certain to fill up the space to keep as much of the medicinal mist filling the air from escaping. Swallowing down a bout of nervousness, he asked his mother in a hushed tone, "You'll let me know if anything happens, right?"

She crossed the floor without making a sound, before cupping his cheek with her palm, and with a smile, said,"Of course, Miguel." Then with a pair of light pats, she added, "Now, go have a good time with your friends. Your papa and I can handle your abuela." Miguel searched her features for any signs of doubt, before reluctantly making to turn around, but before he could get far, she yanked him into a bone-crushing hug. "We are all so proud of you, mijo."

Coughing to hide the sudden lump in his throat, Miguel squeezed her back, noting inwardly that he was now several inches taller after his latest growth spurt, "I'll only be gone for the night, Mamá. Plenty of time to celebrate Dia De Muertos with the family…" Pulling back with a wry grin, he added semi-seriously, "Please don't let Mamá Elena put my photo on the ofrenda if I'm a little late."

She scoffed, "Do not joke about that, you silly boy," and pulled his crimson sombrero over his eyes before folding her arms over her chest crossly. "Now get out of here before I change my mind."

Laughing, Miguel placed a light peck on her cheek, then darted out with a waved, "Love you, Mamá!" The rest of the house was asleep, so he hastily grabbed a knapsack, adjusted his cuffs, and made towards the exit. The alebrije sleeping at its base perked up at his approach. Pausing mid-step at the sight of his otherworldly guardian and ridiculously carefree pet, Miguel bent low to scratch behind the xolo's ears, "You'll take care of everyone while I'm gone, won't you, Dante?"

Wagging his tail, Dante sat up with a yip, which Miguel chose to interpret as an affirmative. "Good boy." When he made to leave, however, an uncharacteristic growl undulated in the canine's throat, and he lunged forward to sink his incisors into the hem of Miguel's pants. At first, Miguel tried reasoning with the dog, since his alebrije usually had a good reason for acting strangely, but another honk from the driveway urged him to hurry, so he quickly untangled the fabric from the canine's jaws, and then slipped out the door, closing it quickly on the sound of claws scratching frantically against the wood.

A chill passed through him when the tone of the alebrije's urgent barking shifted towards mournful, but he shook it off. Surely, Mama Elena would be awake now, and the last thing he and his friends needed was another delay.

"Yo," Carlos called to him from the passenger's side of a light blue convertible with a lopsided grin, "the warden let you out early, hermano?" Esteban stood up and waved. He was sitting in the backseat, already clad in his Mariachi garb, while Alejandro glibly tipped his sombrero in acknowledgement. It seemed he was driving again, which was fair, since none of the rest of them had a license and it was his car.

After chewing out his so-called friends for nearly waking up the whole neighborhood, and most terrifyingly, his chancla-wielding abuela, he vaulted with his trusty guitar into the seat next to Esteban, and they hit the road to sing at the plaza for their late night performance. It was to be their first, an introduction to the musical society, and thus the excitement among the boys was nearly a presence all its own, electricity mixed with nerves and indomitable hope.

And for a while, Miguel's thoughts drifted from his sister. He'd taken comfort in knowing that his decision to leave that night hadn't been an ultimatum. He could and would come back to his family, again and again, as many times as it took.

Lights and lanterns curled around the branches of the young birch trees lining the road as they streaked by. Soon, there would be families in the graveyards spreading cempazúchitl petals, but that wouldn't start until morning, which was a lifetime away. For now, it was about proving to the veteran Mariachi bands that they had what it took to make it to the top, and with Miguel's lyrics and vocals, there was absolutely nothing standing in their way.

When they were nearing the front of a line of Mariachi bands waiting for their chance to shine as they tested their instruments - about five performances away from taking the stage - Miguel's phone began to vibrate. With a sheepish shrug that couldn't quite conceal a worried frown, he thumbed the screen and listened. Gradually, the color began to melt from his face, leaving it gray, as panic, bright and sharp, shoved all former thoughts of contentment from his mind.

With a small nod, he ended the call, and when his bandmates prompted him, explained with his head hanging and a curl to his shoulders that he needed to go home.

Confusion came first from the cousins, followed by quiet denials. Alejandro, for the most part, was disconcertingly silent, until Miguel bent to sling his guitar strap over his shoulder, proving he was serious. Flatly, he said, "Miguel, you're not leaving."

Flashing the others a pleading glance, Miguel shook his head, and spread his palms in a helpless gesture. "You guys don't understand. This is all my fault. Coco's really sick. And she was so upset about me leaving... it must have made it worse." He took a step forward, only to find his path blocked by Alejandro. There was something about the width of him, the strength evident in his arms and torso, the pronounced chin poorly hidden beneath a patchy beard, that made Miguel think, for the first time in a long time, of Ernesto. It wasn't a pleasant thought. Squaring his shoulders and closing the distance until he and Alejandro were practically bumping noses, Miguel told him levelly, "I have to go back to see if she's okay.

Though Alejandro gritted his teeth, he was the first to look away. "This contest only happens once a year, and we were lucky to even get in it." Frustration saturated his words. "We might not be so lucky next year." There was a jarring honk as several cars passed them by, their drivers completely unaware of the turmoil unfolding.

Miguel took a moment to breath before placing a hand on Alejandro's shoulder. "There will be other contests, hermano. But she's my sister. I owe it to her to be there for her when she needs me." And, somehow, he'd always thought his friends would understand that.

"We're your band, Miguel." So far, Carlos and Esteban had watched with quiet resignation, as though they'd known the outcome the second Miguel had stated that his sister was sick, but Alejandro persisted with last-ditch desperation, "We need you here."

Shaking his head, Miguel pushed forward, accidentally bumping shoulders with Alejandro as he passed, "I'm going."

And in the instant that they made contact, an influx of jumbled information assaulted his senses, the first being a hard thump as his guitar was shoved against his chest, followed by a sensation of weightlessness as he stumbled and his feet left the sidewalk, followed by the terrible brightness of approaching headlights. The last thing he remembered seeing before everything he knew and was exploded into fireworks of white agony, was the familiar expression of fury on his bandmate's face. It was already morphing into something else by the time he got a look at it, but he never got to find out what.

And for quite a long time afterwards, Miguel would curse his useless brain, because in the split second before his death, his mind thought it fit not to conjure images of his family and the people who loved him, but of someone he'd rather forget.

"Just give me five minutes, Senora."

Waggling his brows, the skeleton in the torn Mariachi outfit leaned on the scanner with a cheesy grin. Meanwhile, the Border Lady sighed through a forced smile, suppressing an unprofessional eye roll with a visible force of will. "I'll zip over there, make sure she's okay, and then zip right back." His hands clasped in a gesture that was not quite begging. "You won't even notice I'm gone!"

"It's been three years, chiquito." She told him, and not unkindly in spite of the detached demeanor required of her position, as the image of the giant red X placed over his bones dissolved once more into the scanner screen. Judging by his stature and gangly limbs, she guessed that the boy couldn't have been older than fifteen or sixteen when he'd died. "If your sister were coming, you would know."

Frowning, Miguel turned to see the ethereal bridge of cempazúchitl petals stretching out over the divide between the realms, and the steady stream of souls strolling across it, hand-in-hand and elbow-to-elbow with their families. Crossing it had been so easy when he was alive. "You say that like a kid's never been lost in the Land of the Dead before." The long line behind him was only getting longer and more restless as he continued to stall, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew his familia and refused to believe that they would keep neglecting to put his photo on the ofrenda.

Ignoring the growing restlessness of the waiting patrons, the Border Lady told him sternly, "You were a special case, Miguel, and you were very lucky your family found you when they did." It reminded him of being scolded by his cousin Rosa – the comparison nearly drawing out a genuine smile. "You should really go to Customs. Everyone in the Land of the Dead knows the Riveras have been searching for you."

The last Miguel had seen his Papá Hector, he'd been succumbing to the Final Death after sacrificing everything to send him home, even his chance to see his daughter again. How could Miguel possibly look Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco in the eyes when Hector's sacrifice had so quickly come to naught? It was his choices, his mistakes that had cost him everything, and he couldn't bear the thought of how they might react when they realized that.

Instead of saying any of that aloud, however, Miguel merely shot a glance at the big-boned security skeletons standing guard by the marigold bridge, each of them watching him warily in case he tried to finish off this year's Dia De Muertos by making another run for it. And, well, who was he to disappoint?

He took a step backwards, taking him out of the line, and then continued to retreat without turning around so that the look of suspicion on the Border Lady's face went unobscured until the crowd swallowed it up. "I'll think about it, Senorita." He called back with a wide grin. "Thanks for the advice!"

Gears already turning as he took note of the bustling techni-colored streets, Miguel strolled down to the corner of the sidewalk where a lone motorbike was propped up against the Pedestrian Crossing street sign. There was a lock on the back wheel, which would have thrown a wrench in Miguel's burgeoning plan, if the mechanism hadn't been unwittingly obstructed by a metal spoke.

After scribbling out –

Sorry for borrowing your bike.
Will return soon.
Gracias!

- on a scrap of paper and sticking it to the sign, Miguel scrambled onto the white leather seat, his hands finding the rubber grips on the handlebars with ease. All there was left for him to do was get it started, so naturally he tried giving the engine a sharp kick, just to see if that would do anything.

It didn't. Nothing changed except now he felt silly. Next, he tried checking the compartments, and sure enough, there was a spare key under the seat. He plugged it into the socket, letting out a delighted grito when the machine roared to life, and he slammed a foot down on the gas pedal, sending the motorbike careening towards the booths. Those who spotted his approach threw themselves out of the way, leaving the barrier wide open. The bike crashed through the gate, went barreling past the security guards, and distantly Miguel could hear shouting but it was drowned out by the sound of his own cackling because finally he was going home!

The unexpected give of the petals beneath his tires should have been his first clue that this wasn't going to work. In the end, he made it about halfway up the bridge before the entire section collapsed, and for the second time in his life, Miguel was treated to a sensation of weightlessness, and following close on its heels, agonizing pain.

Something was cracked.

Actually, strike that, a lot of somethings were cracked.

He kept his sockets sealed shut until the waves of pain became more bearable, until he was sure he could open them without screaming, and when they did, it was to find himself lying soaked in a shallow canal, with a familiar disapproving face looming over him. "Tu eres muy stupido."

Miguel winced, then quickly wished he hadn't when inky black spots dotted his vision. He was vaguely aware of being lifted, his arms slung around a spinal column, and then he was moving, floating.

The next time he woke up, he was lying in a bed beneath a ceiling painted in swirls of marigold yellow, rusty bronze, reddish orange, sea green, and variants of blue, like a sunrise above the ocean, and had absolutely no idea where he was. His body twinged when he shifted his head to the side in an effort to get his bearings, a warning.

"Don't move yet, chiquito." He knew that voice. Moving only his eyes, he was able to see the border patrol who'd refused him three times now, except she'd taken her hair out of the stern bun she'd always worn it in. There was a chair pulled close to the bed, which Miguel realized with a pang of guilt was likely her bed, and she lowered herself into it, the movements slow and deliberate as though she were trying not to spook him. "I took you to my home because I didn't know where else to take you." The Rivera family was an obvious choice, but if he had gone out of his way to avoid any interaction with them since his arrival than she didn't feel it was her place to interfere, and though those words never left her mouth, for which Miguel felt a swell of gratitude, it was written in the frustration emanating from the pronounced furrow of her brow. When he moved to sit up, bracing for the pain, she rested a bony finger on his chest, and pressed him back against the mattress, "Don't be ridiculous, chamaco. You have so many fractures on your bones right now even your fractures have fractures. What you need is rest."

"But Dia De Muertos is almost over," he croaked, though he made no further attempts to move when the ceiling mural began to tilt. "What if my family puts my photo on the ofrenda?" And if they didn't, then it was absolutely vital that he find out why. For years, his mind had been leaping to worst case scenarios. He needed to know that everyone was safe and healthy, or he'd lose his mind well before he was forgotten.

She rested her fingers over his, gently so as not to cause any undue friction between their bones. "If they do, then you will know. I'll ask Customs to inform me the second any become available to you." With a wry smile, she rose to her feet, one of her hands finding a hair tie as she did so that the motion seemed inextricably tied to pulling her hair into a bun. "It's one of the perks of having this job." She paused on her way out of the room, looking thoughtful. "Speaking of, I'm working a second shift today, but I'll be back in time for dinner. Try not to borrow anything else without permission while I'm gone. "

Sputtering, Miguel protested from his prone position, "I was going to give it back!"

She laughed, surprising him. "I was due for a new one, anyway. Sing me a couple of your songs after you've healed up some and we'll call it even."

Once she was gone, Miguel settled back into the cushions with a sigh. He'd never even considered playing music for the sake of settling a debt before and in truth, it'd been some time since he'd touched an instrument, with one notable exception.

There was a room in the Rivera household, formerly known solely for their shoemaking, which was dedicated to Miguel, a shrine for the rising musician whose life had been tragically cut short.

His guitar, once shattered to pieces, had been lovingly recovered and reconstructed, and it now had a place hanging above the fireplace. On the mantle, pictures could be seen of a young boy with a mouthful of tamales on his birthday, making tacos in the kitchen with his abuela, proudly holding up a pair of polished shoes with a gap-toothed smile, and wearing his pressed and ironed Mariachi uniform for the first time while surrounded by his parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmother. To the Riveras, losing him had been a blow they couldn't recover from.

Socorro hated the room with the entirety of her six-year-old heart. Everyone who entered it seemed to come out sadder than before, if that were possible, but most of all, she hated what it represented. Miguel wasn't gone like everyone said. He'd told her he was coming back, he'd promised. And she believed him.

But if everyone kept acting like he was never coming back, then maybe he would think they didn't want him anymore and he'd stay away. That was why every year she snuck into the ofrenda room and hid her brother's photo, so he would know that they were still waiting for him to come home, relenting only the day after when her Mamá begged her to tell where she'd hidden them.

Miguel was still alive. She was sure of it.

He'd told her a story once, about how he'd gone to a magical land where he met Papá Hector and Mamá Imelda, about how it was beautiful and wonderful and scary. And to get there, all he'd had to do was steal a guitar.

Standing up on her tippy-toes, Coco gazed up in awe at the white guitar with its splintered wood, cracked paint, and grinning skeleton handle. It had belonged to her brother, but before him, it had belonged to her great great grandfather.

After sneaking a furtive glance at the entrance to make certain no one was coming, she yanked the instrument off the wall, though the weight of it surprised her, and she stumbled backwards before narrowly recovering her balance.

Somehow, Miguel had gotten trapped on the Land of the Dead again, and she was the only person in their family who knew, so it was up to her to go and find him and bring him home.

The guitar was too large and unwieldy in her grip, yet she set her jaw stubbornly, and brushed her fingertips over the cords, eliciting an unexpectedly sweet sound from the strings. A tingle of warmth crept over her skin, a breeze tickled the back of her neck, and the flower petals on the tile rose as though swept up by a storm.

A discordant twang echoed through the Rivera house, but when all present rushed in to investigate, it was to find the room empty, with only a guitar lying on the tile, and the ghost of a child's delighted laughter still clinging to the walls.

A/N: In case this wasn't clear, I am not a Hispanic person, and my knowledge of the language and culture is limited. But I loved this movie. If you find something that could use improvement, please feel free to let me know in the comments.

I'd like to give credit to that comic of Hector driving a van across the bridge, because it's a wonderful and amusing headcanon for how he got some of those cracks in his bones. I debated showing Miguel waking up directly after his death, and I still might do that next chapter, but though I remember Hector mentioning it, I can't recall if he woke up in the Land of the Living or in the Land of the Dead.

Happy holidays! Merry Christmas! And a Happy New Year!