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Miguel beamed at the compliment but otherwise kept his voice to himself, returning to look at the ofrenda. He listened to Mamá Coco talk at length about every single ancestor in the family. She talked fondly of her mother and husband Papá Julio, but her stories of other family members weren't spared her affection either. It was only when she recounted the tales of her late daughter, Tía Victoria, that she became somber and even paused at times. Miguel leaned against her side, hoping to at least lighten her long-buried sadness. She showed her appreciation by patting his side as best as she could with a shaky cane in hand.

There was, unsurprisingly, a lot to talk about for someone who'd walked the earth longer than some people had been alive. He'd heard some of them before, but she spun new tales out of them regardless, telling him of her childhood, her journey into a young woman in her 20s, then moving on to her subsequent decades slowly becoming the old lady she was now.

"Mamá, it's late," his abuelita Mamá Elena entered the room, her voice soft as she scooped Miguel up into her arms. She tickled his nose, forcing a laugh out of him. She cooed. "Were you two gossiping about me, mijo?"

"Mamá Coco said Mamá Imelda used to chase you around with her chanclas."

"That she did," Abuelita assented before fixing him to her hips. "Now let's put you to bed, shall we."

He nodded, eyes briefly glancing at Mamá Coco. Abuelita followed his line of sight, where the woman tried to make herself taller by pushing on her cane.

"You take Miguel to his room, mija. I want to stay here a bit longer."

"Of course, Mamá. I'll tell Berto to get you a chair." She turned around, her gentle face immediately switching alongside her voice. "Berto!!"

After shouting for her son to conjure a chair, complete with pillows for Mamá Coco to sit on, Mamá Elena's expression returned to normal and she carried Miguel to his shared room with his cousins, Abel and Rosa. They weren't sleeping yet, still arguing with Tía Carmen that they were big enough to stay up till dawn.

Miguel ignored them, letting Abuelita tuck him in his bed with a peck on his forehead.

"Good night." He pulled his blanket and rolled to one side, yawning. "Tell Mamá and Papá I said that too."

"I will. Good night, mijo," she said, ever so soft before her mood swung again at his noisy cousins.

In the chaos of his grandmother brandishing her chancla and his cousins promising to behave, Miguel found peace and comfort being surrounded by his loving family.

〚◎⦿◉〛

Miguel dreamed of the Marigold Road again. There he stood, taller, skinless, bones all the way. On a dark plane of nothingness that threatened to swallow him whole, he trudged forward on the shining orange path laid out before him. Beautiful, inviting, warm.

"...top him..." disembodied voices shouted from behind, far away and harmless towards his quest to reach the road's end... To reach the sunlight.

The road burned bright under its glare, enticing him to move forward, to ignore the pain as his bones sizzled from its bedazzling light.

"Luisa!" another disembodied voice shouted, but it was clearer. Closer. And it came from in front of him, guiding him toward his destination.

"I'm alright. But our baby..." Another.

"Quique, call a doctor!" Another.

"@#£&¥π?" Another voice, but it came from a floating shapeless phantom standing in his way. It spoke, otherworldly, its tongue beyond comprehension. "€π$¢`=?"

Miguel continued forward, phasing through the phantom towards the end of the marigold.

The world shifted, leaving in its wake Miguel floating in yet another plane of darkness. But there was also warmth, love, and a pair of voices that doted on him every time he woke up from his slumber, the void keeping him safe.

〚◎⦿◉〛

Miguel woke up to the discomfort in his bladder, the drinks he consumed last night finally coming down. It was dark and still a couple of hours away before sunrise. His journey to the toilet was supposed to be a two-way return trip, but he stopped when he heard his parents and relatives laughing.

He followed their voices, making his way outside to find Papá and Tío Berto sharing a toast, while Mamá, Tía Carmen, and Tía Gloria chatted on the other side of the yard.

"Miguel?" Papá noticed him first and put down his glass to pick Miguel up. The man grinned. "Up early today, eh?"

"Had too much atole. The pee kept going, I thought I'd be stuck in the toilet forever..." Miguel frowned much to his father's amusement. Mamá came to their side and gave Miguel a soft pinch on the cheek.

"Did you come to say goodbye to Mamá Imelda and everyone else?"

Miguel neither shook nor nodded his head, instead he lay his head on Papá's shoulder. "Mamá Imelda doesn't like me."

Papá shifted under him, sharing a confused look with Mamá.

"Now why wouldn't she?" Mamá asked.

"Cause I told Mamá Coco she sounds scary. Scarier than Abuelita."

"Oh, you're dead, mijo." Papá nodded in agreement before Mamá swiftly pinched his arm. "Ow," he half-heartedly reacted.

Sleep never came back to Miguel even half an hour later, so he resigned himself to hanging out with the adults, sitting in Mamá's lap. He listened to them talk about new markets for their shoes, the profit and loss for the last few months, and what to do to improve sales. Miguel made sure to listen to their ideas, making sense of and considering them in his head just to stave off the boredom.

He didn't notice Tía Gloria staring at him until she addressed Mamá and Papá.

"Last year Miguel was here too, right?"

Miguel furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

"Miguel has a thing with Día de los Muertos." He glanced up to see Papá smiling down at him. "Can't sleep, always wakes up in the middle of the night."

"I do?"

Mamá nodded, caressing his hair. "It must be because of that fall I had when I was pregnant. I was so scared I'd lose you, but the doctor said you'd be alright. Now here you are, big and healthy like I prayed you'd be."

"Not big enough," he argued for the sake of arguing.

Miguel hugged her arms that she had wrapped around him, her warmth spreading through his body. They soon started to talk about taxes again, by which point a silent Miguel didn't think he had any energy left to entertain.

"Adult talks are boring. I'm going to the ofrenda room." Miguel excused himself and gave a kiss to his parents before climbing down Mamá's lap.

His family in the ofrenda room greeted him yet again with their thousand-yard stares, their immortalized features oblivious to the presence of their youngest Rivera. But it wasn't them who he came for.

"Misha?" He crawled under the altar's skirt, not surprised to find a stray cat eating a grilled meat offering he'd set down. The cat, upon realizing it'd been caught, hissed and dashed away with its boon between its maw, leaving Miguel alone under the ofrenda. Alone with a dirty piece of paper, the crude drawing on it smudged with meat juice.

Miguel reached for it and the other offering, a shiny toy car in blue. He smiled upon the random mess of colors decorating the shapeless blob in his hands.

"This is your first Día de los Muertos. Did you enjoy it?" he muttered to an object that couldn't respond. He continued, keeping his voice a whisper to any prying ears, dead or alive. "I'm sorry I couldn't find a better gift. I promise to get you better stuff next year."

Nobody replied. Miguel's smile broke into a sad one. "I'm sorry you're not the one sitting here, celebrating with Mamá and Papá."

Miguel hugged the paper, telling it of the shenanigans he and Rosa and Abel were up to, of everything his— their parents, Tíos, and Abuelos had been doing for the almost three years Miguel had been alive. Three years he'd stolen from the soul that was denied its birthright.

"I'm sorry, Misha. I'm sorry..."

His family would later spend the whole morning looking for him. They'd find him lying under the ofrenda, breathing softly after having cried himself to sleep. Hugged close to his person was a crumpled paper bearing no name, its own having been christened to another.

〚◎⦿◉〛

Sometimes, Miguel found himself wandering the night streets of Santa Cecilia, listening to the humming wind as near a century of history thumped and clucked beneath his soles.

No one bothered him, the townspeople lost in dreams and nightmares and whatever else the dark of the night offered.

Tonight however, his feet took him further than just the zapateria. He had no destination in mind, but he felt compelled when he saw a place where the dead slept and the living scrambled in fright. At least, on most nights.

"Are you a ghost haunting for candies, mijo? Or are you just lost?" The man in black robe greeted, hunched over a recently cleaned grave. Candles lit his sickly pale face and guided Miguel to the only source of light in the cemetery, eyes drawn to the glinting cross on the man's neck.

"I'm not lost, but I don't mind getting candies, Padre."

The man kept his soft smile, looking ever so pitiful with his sunken cheeks and bagged eyes. He dusted away any new dust on the grave in front of him. "Are you visiting family?"

Miguel shrugged, taking a seat by the Padre's legs. "I don't know. He's not buried. Mamá and Papá don't know he's gone."

"What's your name, mijo?"

"Miguel Rivera."

"Then how about you tell me about him while I walk you home, Miguel." The man reached under his robe and procured a lollipop. Miguel took it, offering a tight smile in return as he glanced at the grave.

"Your daughter, Padre?"

Etched onto the stone, the name "Dora Estrada" brought out the grief onto the man's face as he traced his fingers upon it. Her old and faded picture, a girl of Abel's age, smiled in his direction that he replied in kind, though with much less joy.

"How old are you, mijo?" he asked with his eyes locked onto her unseeing ones.

"Almost three."

"Brave enough to walk at night alone too. Dora was like that." the man chuckled, still unable to tear his gaze away. "She'd be as old as your mom today probably."

Miguel stayed silent, watching the man mourn his family.

When Miguel was on the road again, small hand in the Padre's bigger and warmer one, he treaded his questions as carefully as he did the uneven ground beneath his feet. He fell.

"Do you think Dora is in heaven?" Miguel asked after the man frantically picked him up and dusted away all the dirt.

"Dora is in a good place," he replied and locked Miguel inside his arm, no longer trusting Miguel to walk on his own.

With his higher vantage point, Miguel was able to make out the shape of the houses he'd passed by earlier. Under the streetlights that shone their way, he counted the houses one by one until he reached number six, because toddlers shouldn't be able to tell which houses were sleeping with lights on, and which were having a... midnight activity.

"I sometimes dream I'm a skeleton," Miguel spoke again, lying his head on the man's shoulder. He was gangly under the robe. "Everyone's dead there. But they can die again."

The Padre humored his nonsense chatter, amusement belying the man's words.

"Because they're forgotten?" he spoke of the story that made Día de los Muertos.

Miguel nodded onto the broad shoulder that was slowly lulling him to sleep. "Uh-huh. That's why it's sad."

"Why, mijo? That dead people die again?"

"...that Dora doesn't know if she can see her step-brother again." Miguel was fighting a yawn when the man halted in his step. "She doesn't know if he passes down her stories for everyone else to remember. When he dies, she might disappear too. And he'll be alone.

"But now I know, and I can remember her for you." Miguel lifted his head to see the wide eyes and gaping mouth directed at him. Unasked questions formed at the man's trembling lips, yet none came out. Miguel smiled. "Dora's in a good place, Padre Diego. She's waiting to go to heaven with you."

Padre Diego never got to ask his questions because shouts of "Miguel!" began to fill the previously quiet neighborhood. Papá, Tío Berto, Papá Franco, and even Abuelita came running and heaved relieved sighs to see him waving at them. They gave their thanks to Padre Diego before promptly scolding Miguel.

Abuelita's chancla would leave marks, and Mamá Coco herself would chide her daughter for it. And during the next few days Abuelita over-smothered him to make up for that night, Miguel would find somewhere to escape to doodle in peace.

"Dora." He ticked beside a drawing of a small skeleton. Following that, he drew another circle, giving it bumps and edges along with a set of eyes, a mouth, and a pair of triangular holes for the nose. Atop the new skeleton's head was a hat.

"What are you drawing, Miguel?" 11-year-old Abel who'd graciously helped him hide asked. It was difficult to look up when one was lying unseen under the bed, but he made do with sliding the paper out for his cousin to see.

"...Chicharrón," he answered after a moment of hesitation.

〚◎⦿◉〛

There were days the morning was slow and everything afterwards slower. Miguel spent that time mostly observing his family.

For all the Riveras touted of their shoemakers' pride, each one of them couldn't be more different in their approach to continuing their late matriarch's legacy.

Abuelita was the closest to becoming her grandmother, a blood that ran on shoes just as well as those shoes could bleed a rambunctious child. Not that Miguel had ever seen it. The tall tales his Tíos told of her as bedtime stories seemed more exaggerated than anything. But when it came to shoes, she was, in no uncertain manner, merciless towards whatever products that weren't up to standards. One defective shoe out of a pair would land both in the dumps. At least the less fortunate of Santa Cecilia loved her for that, if scared of her sometimes.

Papá Franco, Abuelita's husband, was less of a perfectionist. But they wouldn't be married if he was anything less than precise with his shoemaking. Where his wife relied on instinct and natural-born talent to craft shoes, he brought out measurement tools to nick out the imperfections down to the inches. If not for looks, Abuelita married him for his shoes. Mamá Imelda probably blessed their union for that reason alone.

Tío Berto was a beefy man, but his shoes were sleek and slender that all women of Santa Cecilia sought out his designs... At least that was how he bragged about it. Tía Carmen would more than often chide her husband and say there was only one woman who found his shoes pleasing enough to seek the man himself... and then they'd make out. Abel and Rosa found it disgusting, Miguel found it romantic. Abuelita found a chancla to make them get back to work.

Tía Carmen herself preferred to make shoes for men, citing how her husband would look good in them. She liked to draw inspiration from foreign fashion, so her style stood out among all the Rivera designs. That said, she'd more than once drive Abuelita crazy with her overdecorating her shoes. The zapateria had set prices for products, but those shoes were way above anybody's payroll who lived in Santa Cecilia.

Miguel's own Papá, Enrique, was average at making shoes. He didn't stand out, but he'd never made a bad shoe in his life. He liked things simple and functional. A shoe was a shoe and never a weapon in his hands. Literally, every shoe he made was on the basis it couldn't be used by Abuelita as projectile. Miguel admired him for that.

His mamá, Luisa, was like Tía Carmen and often tried out new things. But she wasn't good at it and messed up a lot. Being married into the family meant she had to learn how to make shoes in the first place. If there was favoritism in the family, it was towards her. Everyone gave her pointers and even Abuelita kept to her side in the workshop to supervise her. A lot of her shoes weren't sold, but those that were became her pride and drove her to improve.

Tía Gloria was the only one left unmarried in the family. She had a knack for making pairs of mismatched shoes, but it was really her making one pair of right shoes on one day, and one pair of left shoes on another. She couldn't be more obvious if she tried.

Abel and Rosa weren't old enough to commit to the tradition, but Miguel had seen the former receive training from the adults.

And then there was Mamá Coco. She didn't make shoes anymore. Her old age had driven her into the corner of her room, rarely leaving it outside of meals and family events. But her Rivera blood still ran strong, she knitted them all socks for their birthdays. The ones she made for them children had different animals. So far Miguel had a pair of kittens, puppies, and birds. Who knew what next year would get him?

"Miguel, stop playing with your food and eat," Abuelita chided.

〚◎⦿◉〛

It went unsaid that Miguel was Abuelita's favorite.

"Miguel, get down that tree!"

"Miguel, get off of the road!"

"Miguel, it's midnight, what are you doing outside?!"

"Miguellll!"

Abuelita was... harsh. Not that he faulted her for having to put up with two rambunctious children and another who gave her enough heart attacks in her lifetime. But Miguel could see it, the way Abel and Rosa shied away whenever she was in the room. The way everyone went silent when she glared their way. Even Mamá Coco, who spoke up against her at times, found it useless to argue every time.

"Everyone's afraid of you, Abuelita," Miguel The Unafraid approached the woman one day while she cleaned the yard. She stopped raking the leaves and gave him, the three-year-old that barely reached her knees, a strange look.

"Where's this coming from?"

He shrugged. "Abel and Rosa will try to run away and hide anytime you get close. That's not right. Of you, I mean."

Abuelita frowned. Their conversation had drawn the attention of the rest of the family, each one horrified at the stare-down they were having.

"...I can't change who I am, Miguelito," Abuelita simply said after a shake of her head before going back to the leaves, her back turned towards him.

But Miguel wasn't done. "Not even for family?"

There was a slight tension in her shoulders that went as quickly as it came. He didn't know what face she could be making because right after that, Papá immediately snatched him up and ran, telling him to never speak with Abuelita that way again.

The following days, the Riveras walked on eggshells around the woman. It didn't help matter that she was silent throughout, only glancing at them and giving them the silent treatment.

She didn't look at Miguel once.

It was at dinner one day when she finally spoke up again. In contrast to everyone's frown, Mamá Coco was smiling at a joke no one was privy to.

"...Familia, I want to apologize."

Now Mamá Coco was full-on grinning, with Miguel joining her as well. The rest of the family had their jaw dropped further and further the more Abuelita spoke.

"Miguelito was right. I was too harsh with this family. I say I love you, but all I'm doing is the opposite." She looked at Abel and Rosa. "I'm sorry for being a bad abuelita to you two. Will you forgive me?"

"N-no more chancla?" Abel squeaked with Rosa nodding her head off.

"No more chancla. That's a promise." She made a cross gesture, something she took as seriously as she took her music ban. Her eyes soon found Miguel who'd still not stopped grinning. She only deigned him a raised brow as a response before addressing the whole family again. "Now stop looking at me. Eat. Or do you want me to be scary again?"

Rosa who'd never eaten seconds before today went on to get her thirds, beating even her own brother. Whether it was out of bewilderment or fear still was anyone's guess.

Miguel's eyes met Mamá Coco's. That night, he was promised a piece of candy anytime he wanted so long as he told her what had possessed him to confront Abuelita like that.

"You remind me of my Papá sometimes," she said in passing, hand reaching for a candy jar hidden in the kitchen shelf.

Miguel didn't have a response to that.

〚◎⦿◉〛

The first time Miguel met Padre Diego, the man looked halfway dead. The second time around, he wished to tell the man he'd never looked more alive.

Padre Diego was not the healthiest of man. Looking down at the coffin, Miguel wasn't surprised to find the corpse paler than most dead people he'd seen in this life and the other one. Yet, the man was smiling, as if no longer burdened by the weight of the world.

It was nostalgic, in a sense. Another child had been here too a century ago, watching his beloved Padre Gustavo being mourned by his fellow orphans and nuns. Miguel had no such connection to this place, but like a guitar chord struck by divine breath, its tune traversed time and hummed inside his heart. No one heeded mind for a child who teared yet smiled in the face of grief.

"Padre Diego wanted you to have this," a nun bent to his height later to hand him an aged book. It was a diary. A cross necklace was draped around it, tying down a picture of two people onto its cover. "Before he died, he passed to me his wish to thank you."

Miguel hugged the diary close and thanked the nun.

His family barring Abuelita wasn't affected by the passing, so the walk home was just her latching onto Papá Franco's shoulder, grieving she couldn't gift him the shoes she was making for helping find Miguel that night. Mamá Coco on her cane stayed by her daughter's side, and that was all the comforting Abuelita needed before she swore. Next Día de los Muertos, he'd have a mountain of offering to greet him.

While the adults talked, Abel and Rosa had bounded ahead and chased each other on the street. His Tíos only watched them with exasperated smiles. Mamá and Papá too began to wag fingers at Miguel telling him to be more behaved than his cousins when he grew up.

Abel and Rosa soon joined the group again as they made their way back home. Miguel watched his family chatter about from the top of Papá's head, gaze eventually landing on Mamá Coco who everyone waited for at every step, making sure she wasn't left behind.

Miguel smiled, body bouncing along with every step Papá took.

〚◎⦿◉〛

Beyond the Marigold Road was a treasure, a light so bright it drove away all darkness.

"...ook at our baby, Quique. Isn't...the most...recious thing?"

"...e's beautiful. What are...naming him?"

"I think...iguel..."

When he opened his eyes, two angels graced him with their smiles.