#ghost hector

It started on the Day of the Dead. Imelda’s parents had died in a house fire barely a month before the holiday and the only picture she had of them was from her and Hector’s wedding. She put it up without much thought to her husband standing beside her in the middle of the photo, the only one smiling in what was supposed to be a serious portrait of their wedding party.

“How can I do anything but smile?” he had asked, when her father had complained, “I just married the most wonderful woman in the world.”

Imelda had blushed, and tried to fight down her own love sick smile, but when he’d turned those soft brown eyes her way, she had melted.

So she put the wedding photo on the ofrenda and placed down a few offerings, including the gifts Hector had sent for them three and a half weeks ago. Well, gifts was perhaps not the right word, her parents had asked her to ask him to send them some parts to fix their record player, and he had complied, albeit a few days too late. She didn’t know what she expected them to do with those parts in the after life, but hey, they’d asked for them.

As Imelda placed the wedding photo on the ofrenda, her only worry was that Hector might not have received her letter alerting him that her parents were dead. In the letter sent with the gramophone parts, Hector had mentioned that he was trying to talk Ernesto out of yet another detour that would only serve to lengthen their tour. Based on the return address on the money she’d received two days later, Ernesto had once again gotten his way.

A toy guitar had arrived for Coco the day after, with a note promising he would teach her how to play it as soon as he got home.

She was glad the tour was going well, really she was. They had bills to pay after all, and it was nice to have some savings. However, Imelda missed her husband, and she couldn’t help wishing that he would just come home already. She had started looking at alternate ways for her to make money, perhaps working was a bit below her station, but if it meant their little family could be together more…? Imelda would do it with a smile on her face.

But then on Day of the Dead, less than a month since she’d last heard from her husband, the little toy guitar in Coco’s room started to play music. 

It was when the child friendly festivities were over and Imelda was putting Coco down for bed. Her teeth were brushed, her face was washed, and all that was left for her to do was sing the lullaby her father had written at 8:15 sharp. Coco started singing, and the small guitar sitting on the rocking chair in the corner accompanied her.

Coco laughed and clapped, “Papa sent me a magic guitar!”

Imelda stared at the guitar, slowly nodding, “You know your papa, he wants you to have the very best.”

She tucked her daughter in, kissed her good night, then lifted the toy guitar so she could inspect it for gears. Imelda didn’t find anything, but she decided that they must be there regardless, hidden somehow. It was simply a fancy looking music box, she told herself, that went off by itself after three weeks of lying silent. It meant nothing.

No, that wasn’t true, it meant Hector had tracked down a toy maker and custom ordered a music box for their little girl. That ridiculous man. Didn’t he know Coco would have been happy with a perfectly normal toy guitar? Imelda shook her head, smiling fondly.

When she was done toasting their parent’s memory with her brothers, Imelda changed into her nightgown and laid down to sleep. She thought again of Coco’s “magic” guitar and her heart ached for her husband. It ached so hard that as she fell asleep she could almost swear that she felt a hand stroking her hair, just as Hector sometimes did.

The guitar played Coco’s lullaby the next day, and the day after. Coco was delighted, Imelda was mildly curious about how it worked.

No more letters arrived from Hector. The last gift she got from him was a necklace with Coco’s and his name inscribed on the heart shaped pendant. She wore it every day.

The money he had sent lasted them six months, long enough that Imelda was able to learn how to make shoes and had started doing so before Hector’s money ran out. Her brothers moved in to help her run her new business, they didn’t ask where Hector was, but they eventually did ask about the self playing guitar.

“It’s a music box,” Imelda brushed off the question, “Hector wrote that song for Coco, he must have gotten it custom ordered. Like my necklace.”

Oscar and Felipe had shared a look, a worried frown taking over both their faces. Imelda pretended not to see it, she just focused on the shoe she was making.

The guitar accompanied Coco every night, even when she sang the song a little bit late or early. Most nights, Imelda fell asleep to an invisible hand stroking her hair. She tried not to think about it, she focused on shoes and raising Coco, and tried not to wonder where her husband was.

A year after Hector’s last gift arrived, the radio in her workshop began playing Hector’s songs. Sung by Ernesto.

The first time one of his songs came on the radio, everything in the workshop froze. It was the song Hector had written for their first anniversary, a song that he had never allowed Ernesto to sing.

“It’s not for them Ernesto, it’s not for money,” Hector had said, shaking his head, “It’s for the love of my life, and the many years we will spend together.”

“But Hector-.”

“No,” Hector had stood firm, he always stood firm when it came to songs he’d written for his family, “I’m sorry mi amigo, but this one belongs to Imelda.”

Imelda stared at the radio, Oscar and Felipe did the same. She put down the shoe, and stood to turn it off or perhaps change the channel, but before she had taken a single step towards it, the radio turned off by itself. They could all clearly see the off switch toggle off without anyone touching it. In the ensuing silence you could hear a pin drop, so there was nothing to cover the sound of feet stomping out of the shop and up the stairs. 

A door slammed somewhere else in the house.

“Imelda,” Felipe said.

“I know,” she whispered.

She sat back down, eyes still glued to the radio, and her heart pounding in her ears.

“Oscar, Felipe, I… I need you to run an errand for me,” Imelda eventually said, “the last of the money came from Mexico City, I need you two to go, take Hector’s picture and-. I-if the police there don’t recognize him, he was in Santiago de Queretaro before that.”

“Si Imelda,” they said as one.

“We’ll go pack,” Oscar said.

“We’ll leave on the first train tomorrow morning,” Felipe added.

“Bien,” she heard herself say, slowly nodding.

They left her alone and she sat there holding a half finished shoe for who knows how long before she eventually got back to work. Nothing was confirmed. It could have been… a power surge, perhaps the radio was broken. And the stomping was the pipes banging around. And the hand that stroked her hair every night was her imagination. And the guitar was a music box.

Hector… Hector was probably fine.

Except he wasn’t. A week later she met Oscar and Felipe at the station, they looked at her with mournful eyes and handed her a copy of her husband’s death certificate. The cause of death was listed as curare poisoning. Three days after the toy guitar arrived, Hector was found dead in the street with his suitcase and wallet, but no guitar.

“He… he had a train ticket home,” Oscar said, voice choked up.

Felipe nodded, “He would have been back in time for Coco’s birthday.”

Imelda stared at the sheet of paper and wondered how in the world she was going to explain to Coco that her father was dead.  

“They’re going to send us his personal effects.”

“And somebody to… arrange for the b-body to be moved here. If that’s what we want-?”

“It is.”

“Imelda…”

“We are so sorry.”

She nodded, still staring at the death certificate, “Curare poisoning.”

Her brothers didn’t respond, when she looked up at them they were avoiding her gaze.

“How does somebody… is it a kind of food poisoning?”

“It… no. It’s not something that…”

“They said it doesn’t happen… naturally.”

Something cold settled in her gut. Her husband was poisoned, and left for dead with his wallet but not his guitar. 

And now Ernesto was singing her song on the radio.

“Let’s go home,” Imelda said, she could feel steel crawling up her spine, coating her bones. Her mind whirled with thoughts of violence and grief. She went straight to her workshop and made shoes until it was time to pick Coco up from school. Dinner was thrown together, then eaten, and before she knew it, it was 8:15.

“Coco, mi corazon,” Imelda put a hand on her daughter’s wrist to forestall the inevitable song, “we… need to talk. I need to tell you something, about your father.”

Coco’s face fell. She had stopped asking when her Papá would be home four months after the guitar started playing her song. Imelda hadn’t dared to ask where Coco thought Hector was, Imelda hadn’t dared asking herself where Hector was.

“Where’s Papá?” Coco asked, for what would be the last time.

Imelda swallowed past the lump in her throat, but there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from forming in her eyes, “He… He is not coming home, mija. Your father loved us very much, and he wanted to be here with us, but he… he is with abuelo and abuela now.”

“Are we going to have a funeral for him too?” Coco asked, beginning to sniffle.

“Sí,” Imelda nodded, she would have said more but Coco began sobbing, all Imelda could do was hold her.

Hesitantly at first, then somewhat desperately, the little toy guitar began playing Coco’s lullaby. It didn’t stop there this time, it played every soft song Hector had ever known, one right after another. Coco cried herself to sleep in Imelda’s arms after an hour, but the guitar kept playing until the break of dawn, when it played “Remember Me” one last time, then finally went silent.

Imelda listened to each song, held her daughter, and slowly accepted that her husband was haunting their home.

“Hector, if I can find some way to kill you for dying, I will do so,” she whispered to the room, then when there was no response she continued, “do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you? How much we’re going to-. Hector, you are the love of my life, you can’t just, just-, if you think I’m letting you out of this marriage that easy you have another thing coming!”

She almost, almost heard a chuckle. But it could have been the wind, or an echo from outside.

“Hector, what am I supposed to do?” Imelda squeezed her daughter a little closer, “How am I supposed to raise Coco without a father?”

The rocking chair rocked without anyone touching it.

“Sí, sí, you’re here, but you’re not here Hector,” she frowned at the toy guitar firmly, “you can’t help her with her homework, or run errands while I make dinner. You won’t be there to dance with her at her quinceanera, or walk her down the aisle. You… you’ll be a face on the ofrenda, a hole in the family photo, and a lullaby on a toy guitar. That is not the same thing as being here.”

There was once again, no response, but she didn’t need to see or hear her husband to know he was wearing the same kicked-puppy look he’d worn the first time Coco had gotten sick.

“You never should have left, we could have made do without the money,” Imelda sighed, then said, “I love you Hector, I always will.”

A hand began stroking her hair and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the tears that fell anyways.

Imelda wasn’t surprised when she got Hector’s things back and his songbook was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t surprised when rumors spread about his fate, and soon the whole town knew he’d been murdered. She wasn’t even surprised when the sheriff showed up at her door and asked if she wanted him to investigate Ernesto.

“I am gathering evidence, anything you can add will be most appreciated,” she’d said, chin raised high.

“What you planning to do?”

“I simply wish to ensure that my husband is remembered well.”

Imelda was surprised by how many people showed up for Hector’s funeral, although she probably shouldn’t have been. Hector was a kind man, a charming one, she was far from the only person who loved him. Still, the crowd that gathered for the modest service was almost overwhelming in its size. The amount of well wishes and offers of help was enough to almost break through her defenses and pull the tears from her eyes.

“The only assistance I require is in gathering proof,” Imelda said, to each person that offered their help, “If you could write down any memory you have of Hector and that man you  think may be relevant, I would like to collect them.”

The memories came, and they kept coming. When they could afford to do so, Oscar or Felipe would travel to the towns Hector had played in, and ask around at the venues Hector had written to her about.

Before Imelda knew it, another year had passed, and the guitar still played Coco’s song every night.

Ernesto’s voice was almost inescapable, it seemed that every other song on the radio was written by Imelda’s late husband. 

The radio in the workshop would change channels the minute Ernesto started singing. It freaked Oscar and Felipe out at first, but they got used to it, at one point Oscar had even asked for a song to be turned up. The radio had obliged, even as Oscar had frozen solid, staring into the distance as he realized what he’d done.

One night, Imelda sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair out before bed, and when she looked at the window in the mirror, she could see Hector’s silhouette. She couldn’t see his face, but he was turned towards her, doubtlessly staring at her with a soft smile on his face, like he’d done so many nights before.

There was something about it, about this ghost of her husband sitting in the window, likely giving her the same love sick look he always had, that broke her. As she started sobbing the silhouette came closer, then disappeared. A hand stroked her hair until her tears dried. 

She drifted towards her bed and curled up in a little ball under her covers, holding herself as tightly as she could. Arms wrapped themselves around her and out of habit she went to place her hand over his, but there was nothing there for her to hold.

Imelda didn’t sleep that night.

By the third anniversary of his death, she had collected every story of her husband there was to collect. Whenever she wasn’t in her workshop, or taking care of Coco, Imelda was putting the stories in order.

A poster of Ernesto reached Santa Cecilia. He had Hector’s guitar. 

Imelda had to stop the musicos in the square from burning the poster, “I can prove that guitar is Hector’s, let me have this. And if you find any other pictures of Ernesto with my husband’s guitar, send them to me.”

The pictures soon came flooding in as well.

With the evidence compiled, Imelda began checking out law books from the library. The librarian ordered books on copyright law and intellectual property.

One night, at 8:15, Coco sang her lullaby along with the guitar, then stared at the toy.

“Mamá, when you said Pá was with abuelo and abuela… are you sure?”

Imelda hesitated, but eventually said, “Your father loves us very much.”

“He’s not stuck, is he?” Coco asked, brow crinkling in concern.

Imelda hadn’t known for sure how to answer that, but she shook her head and simply said, “No mi corazon, he’s just not ready to leave us.”

Coco accepted this with a little nod, “Good night Mamá, good night Papá.”

Imelda pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair, stood and walked to her own room, doing her best to keep her steps calm and even. As soon as the door to her bedroom was closed she hissed, “You’re not stuck, right? You’ll be there to meet us when it’s our time, right Hector?”

The room was silent. Imelda waited for something, a sign, a whisper, a miracle, but there was only the faint sound of music coming from outside. She sighed and got ready for bed.

As she drifted off she heard a voice, an achingly familiar voice say, “I will never leave you again.”

It took until a little after the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death for Imelda to feel sure that she had all the evidence she needed, and a thorough enough understanding of the law to keep from getting steamrolled over by Ernesto’s lawyers. Now she just needed to figure out the best way to come forward.

Her confidence flagged. She was just one woman and she had no proof that Ernesto had killed Hector, just that Hector had written all of Ernesto’s songs. And that he wasn’t receiving any credit.

She could surely sue and receive enough money to set her family up for generations to come, but she didn’t want money.

Imelda had never cared about the money her husband’s songs brought in.

Then, it happened. It was a normal day, she was making shoes with her brothers, listening to the radio and keeping half an eye on the clock. Coco would come home from school soon, and Imelda would have to get started on dinner. The radio jumped around, avoiding Ernesto as it always did.

And then, “Remember me…”

It was like the first time the radio had played one of Hector’s songs, but somehow ten times worse. Oscar and Felípe froze, and so did their breath as it hit the air and turned to mist. The only movement Imelda could muster were a few shivers as the temperature in the room plummeted.

She smelled Hector’s cologne, just a quick whiff of it, and she heard a guitar. Not a stolen guitar playing a stolen lullaby over the radio, but one that floated invisible through the house, echoing and rageful and drowning out all other sound.

The radio lifted itself into the air, and then slammed onto the ground, it cracked but played on. So the radio slammed into the ground again and again until it was nothing more than a pile of broken pieces.

The guitar settled, then disappeared, the temperature returned to normal. 

Oscar and Felípe gulped in unison, each as white as a sheet. Imelda, took a few deep breaths, she put down the shoe she had just started and stood.

“Oscar, Felípe, will you go wait for Coco? Take her for ice cream,” Imelda said, and they were nodding, racing for the door before she’d even finished talking.

When they were gone, the room was briefly still, Imelda fought hard to keep her eyes from drifting down to the pile of rubble that had once been her radio.

Invisible arms wrapped around her legs, then she heard Hector weeping.

If she could have touched him, she would have bent down and pulled him into her arms. She would have rubbed his back and kissed his face and told him she loved him. If she could touch him she would have dragged him up to their room and held him until he fell asleep.

But if she could touch him, he wouldn’t be dead, would he?

So all she did was wait. The weeping went on for what felt like hours, and her feet ached by the time the arms wrapped around her legs released her. But she didn’t dare move, standing there and waiting was the only thing she could offer her husband.

When she looked down at her skirt, the lack of tear stains made her want to hit something.

“Hector, go upstairs, go rest. Or whatever it is ghosts do when they’re tired, I will clean up the radio.”

The broom in the corner fell over, Hector had always hated it when Imelda cleaned up after him. It didn’t happen often, if he made a mess he was always sure to clean it up before she got to it, but sometimes even the best of men get sick. Rather pathetically, the broom started trying to drag itself over to the destroyed radio.

It barely moved, Imelda wondered if Hector had tired himself out with all the theatrics.

“Go,” she said firmly, “I will handle this.”

The broom gave up, a kiss lingered against her cheek for a second or two, then she was alone. 

Imelda frowned as she realized she could feel the difference between Hector being in the room and him not being there. The startling thing was that she hadn’t felt the absence of his presence since… well, for a long time. Was he always watching her? 

It wouldn’t be too out of character for Hector to spend all day staring at her, grinning like a damn fool, the thought that he was doing that even now made her heart ache. But he had been such a vibrant man, a man who so enjoyed life and all it had to offer. He hadn’t spent all of his time staring at her, there’d been too much else to hold his interest.

There had been food to eat, and by extension recipes to learn, songs to write, guitar strings to pluck, a daughter to play with, and an endless list of random hobbies to try.

Now, what did her husband have? A wife to watch, a toy guitar to play for the daughter he loved, and a best friend to hate.

When Imelda was done cleaning up the shop, she went upstairs and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Hector, mi amor, are you happy here?”

There was, of course, nothing but silence.

“We love you, we miss you, a-and I wish-, I do not want to let you go. But I love you Hector,” her voice broke and she stared down at her lap, “I-I can’t-. It’s bad enough knowing what was done to you, what was taken, seeing you suffer like this? Por favor, if there is somewhere you can go, if there is an afterlife that will hold some peace for you-.”

The bed shook, and she heard that guitar again. It wasn’t quite as angry as before, rather it strummed out a tango much like the ones they used to dance to.

Next to her ear, rougher than she’d ever heard it in life, her husband’s voice growled, “I will never leave you again.”

Imelda stopped breathing.

The bed stilled. The guitar faded. She took in a shaking breath.

When Coco got home, Imelda sat with her and explained that Ernesto had started singing Coco’s lullaby. Imelda told her that she didn’t want to hear that man singing Hector’s songs anymore, so she would no longer be allowing a radio into the house. 

“From here on out if you want to hear music, you will have to rely on a record player,” Imelda said, sternly.

Coco nodded, “I understand, I don’t want to hear that murderer sing Pá’s songs either.”

“You-, who told you that Ernesto was a murderer?”

“I don’t know,” Coco shrugged, looking up at Imelda with a confused pout, “everybody I guess. Everyone in town knows what happened to Papá, was I not supposed to?”

Imelda sighed, “No, I just- I suppose I wanted to protect you from all that.”

Coco didn’t say anything, she just stared down at the table in between them.

A few months later, word reached their little corner of the world that Ernesto would be starring in a movie. A plan started forming in Imelda’s mind.

She kept up with his interviews as he promoted his movie, taking notes. She also started searching for a lawyer.

One night after everybody else was asleep, she set the law books down on her desk, and set her notes aside. Imelda stood, stretched, and walked to her dresser to pull out her nightgown. As she unbuttoned her dress, the room grew warmer.

Imelda frowned when that guitar came back, she hadn’t heard it in months, and she had assumed it only happened when Hector was feeling emotionally charged.

She shucked the dress and the guitar got louder, she glanced at the mirror and jumped when she saw her husband’s silhouette standing right beside her. Invisible hands began pushing her slip’s straps off her shoulders.

“Ay for god’s sake, you’re dead Hector, I can’t even begin to describe how inappropriate-,” she started to say, but cut off when he kissed her neck. 

She had missed her husband, in many, many, ways.

Imelda sighed, “Why now? It’s been almost six years?”

Her slip fell to the ground and her corset opened by itself. Kisses and love bites continued to make their way up and down her neck. Her linen chemise started opening button by button.

“You’ve figured out how to touch me, have you figured out how to let me touch you?”

The mouth on her neck paused, then grinned, it kept going and the guitar sounded almost teasing. She could just see Hector’s eyes sparking with mischief, and she felt a reflexive smile spread across her face.

The chemise joined her slip and corset on the floor, as did her bloomers. The knee high socks were allowed to stay, she noticed.

Hands gripped her hips and began directing her to the bench at her amour, and she gasped. Hector always had her sit there when there was something very specific he wanted to do to her.

“Hector,” she whispered, “this-. We shouldn’t. None of this should-.”

The back of her knees hit the bench and she sat, invisible hands spread her legs wide and she could almost feel him pressing against her as his mouth reappeared on the tops of her breasts. Her knickers started creeping down her hip and she instinctively lifted herself off the bench long enough for them to be pulled off completely.

She closed her eyes, and let herself forget that her husband was dead. His hands caressed her softly and his mouth sucked on her sweetly, as a guitar plucked out an impassioned love song.

After that night she barely went a day without her husband's caress.

He was becoming stronger, she realized, he touched her more, interacted with the house more, his silhouette appeared in the mirror more. Another month, and she stopped bothering with the record player, whenever she was home the invisible guitar followed her from room to room.

Ernesto’s movie came out, two weeks later the lawyer she had chosen knocked on their door. She invited him in, and swallowed back her amusement as he tried in vain to find the source of the playful song Hector was strumming.

“I can not prove any violent crime, but I can prove that my husband’s songs and guitar were stolen,” Imelda said, after briefly bothering with pleasantries.

“Stolen by who?” the lawyer, Señor Bererra asked.

In answer, Imelda placed the family photo of her husband holding what was at the time a brand new guitar down on the table, followed by some of the letters Hector had sent with song lyrics and dates.

Señor Bererra picked up the photo and stared at it, jaw slowly growing slack, “Is that…?”

“That bastard was my husband’s best friend,” Imelda all but growled, and Hector began playing a war march, “he was at our wedding, he was my daughter’s godfather! Then my husband showed up dead in the street with no guitar, no song book, and all of his valuables. And now, he’s playing my daughter’s lullaby as a tawdry love song!”

Bererra gaped, “I-I think I need further proof. What you’re implying is that-.”

“I know what I’m implying, and I’d be happy to provide whatever proof you need,” Imelda pulled out a folder, “here are the receipts from when we bought that guitar, and correspondents between Hector and the guitar’s maker discussing the design. Oh, did I mention it was custom made for him? Here is a signed letter from the guitar’s maker verifying that he made the guitar for Hector, not Ernesto. Here is a wedding photo with Ernesto, myself, and Hector, here is a photo of Hector and Ernesto preparing for a performance in Mexico City two days before my husband was poisoned. Ah, speaking of which, here is my husband’s death certificate and a signed letter from the coroner verifying he most likely died of curare poison. Anything else?”

Instead of responding, he shuffled through everything, shock giving way to grief. Eventually he put everything down, and sat back in his chair.

“I have all of his albums,” he said, in a quiet voice.

“I would thank you to keep them far away from this house. None of us wish to hear Hector’s songs being sung by that scum.”

He didn’t show any sign of having heard her and for a minute she worried she had chosen poorly. He shook his head, sighed, then started nodding instead. With a resigned look he held his hand out for her file, when she handed it to him he immediately began flipping through it.

Imelda waited. Before long, Hector began playing random melodies, and plucking out experimental new songs.

Finally, Señor Bererra put everything back, closed the file, and pushed it back towards her, “You are right, you won’t be able to prove Ernesto de La Cruz killed your husband, not with his team of lawyers. However, you have enough here to end his career if it were to come to light, you and your daughter will be set for life.”

“We are already taken care of,” Imelda waved his words off, “I want my husband to be remembered as the artist he was, I want the entire world to know that he wrote those songs, that he was the genius behind Ernesto’s success. And if I have to burn everything Ernesto has built for himself to the ground in order to make that happen, well! I will consider that a perk.”

He pursed his lips, “Coming forward with this information would be extremely risky, for you and your daughter.”

The guitar music abruptly stopped.

“I am not afraid of Ernesto. That vapid-.”

“It is not Ernesto de la Cruz I am speaking of, although I think it bears mentioning that we have reason to believe he has already killed once for success. It is his fans. They will not accept this easily, some will accuse you of lying, they may come after you and your family in a misguided attempt to protect their idol.”

Imelda drummed her fingers on the table. She hadn’t considered that.

Hector plucked out a nervous melody, he had never been one for caution, not until Coco was born. Even then, while he had staunchly guarded their daughter from every swinging cabinet door and potentially dirty fly, he hadn’t bothered exercising the same care when she was out of his arms. But Imelda recognized his plea for caution in the song.

“I will talk to the sheriff,” she decided, “see what protections he can offer us.”

And she would abandon some of the flashier plans she had made. Much as she would love to grind Ernesto under her heel, she would not allow any harm to come to her little girl. As long as people knew the truth about Ernesto and Hector, that would be enough.

“Ah, sí, that is an excellent idea,” Señor Bererra agreed, “in the meantime, we should have copies made of all this. And I will begin drafting some letters for some friends of mine. This will be quite the undertaking, I will most likely need help.”

“Very well,” she nodded, “is there anything else you need from me?”

The meeting went by swiftly after that, Señor Bererra explained what she might expect to happen next, what letters he would be writing, what judges and agencies he would be contacting. All that. She offered him one of the guest rooms, since he had come all the way from the city, and he accepted.

At dinner that night he seemed quite charmed by Coco’s questions about his job, and increasingly confused by the guitar music that followed Imelda in and out of the room.

He didn’t ask, not at dinner, and not in the morning on his way to the train station. 

Imelda spoke to the sheriff and he offered to round up volunteers to guard her house when the news broke, she accepted, despite her pride. She had her daughter to think of, after all. 

By the time Señor Bererra returned with his secretary to make copies and take pictures of the evidence, the towns’ musicos had formed a militia they were calling the Hector Riveria Revenge Patrol. Hector was quite touched.

Then, things started happening very quickly.

Señor Bererra got in touch with somebody in the government who did something concerning copyright.

News broke two weeks later that Ernesto was being investigated for multiple copyright violations. 

A reporter came to town and asked around the square about Ernesto, and Hector. Somebody, Imelda didn’t know who, spilled the whole story, suspected murder and all.

The story hit the front page of multiple newspapers, mere days after it became known that Ernesto had another movie in the works.

More reporters came.

Then the fanatics arrived. Imelda had expected yelling, anger, even violence. She hadn’t expected a group of fans to camp out in the streets outside their home with a record player and every single one of Ernesto’s albums. Señor Bererra advised her that throwing shoes at them might hurt her case.

Hector did his best to drown them out, but the anger and pain in his songs hurt just a little more than the sound of Ernesto singing Hector’s wedding vows.

After two weeks of those bastards camping outside, Imelda stepped out of the house to do the grocery shopping, only to be met by wolf whistles and drunken offers. 

“Oh terrific,” she grumbled, eyeing the pile of yelling morons leaning on the house across the street, “somebody gave them tequila.”

“Ay mamacita,” a red faced man hollered, trying and failing to get to his feet, “how’s about you let me give you a reason to remeeeemmmber meeeee.”

A barrage of drunken giggles and guffaws followed his attempts to sing Coco’s lullaby, and they only grew louder when the man finally got to his feet, managing to dance with all the grace of a lame rocking horse.

Hector started playing louder, and the wind picked up.

When the man was swaying in front of the record player, he let out a startled shout, then fell onto the table holding the record player, smashing it.

The guffaws turned to angry shouts.

“Who pushed me?!” The man shouted.

“My record player!” One of his compatriots, presumably the one who owned the now obliterated record player, gasped.

“Hey! That record was limited edition," yelled another.

“Aw the music,” the fourth man lamented, then took another swig from the bottle in his hand.

“I mean it, which one of you assholes pushed me?” 

“Nobody pushed you, you moron, you fell and smashed my record player!”

“No, no, somebody pushed me! I felt it.”

“Do you have any idea how much that record cost me?”

“That record-?! Do you have any idea how much the record player cost me?!”

“I know one of you assholes pushed me, now fess up or I’ll-.”

“Or you’ll what?! Break my record player?”

“And my record!”

“Hey lady, do you have a record player we can borrow,” the fourth man called out to her, over the arguing.

“Would you forget about your damn record for a second?!”

“It was limited edition!”

“You know what?!” the first man pushed both of his companions, “There! See how you fucking like- oof.”

Predictably, the three men stumbled their way through a drunken brawl, while the fourth grumbled and scooted away from them. Meanwhile, one by one, all of the records they brought started floating up and smashing themselves against the side of the building they’d been sitting against. By the time the sheriff arrived to break up the fighting, there was only one album still intact.

The sheriff “accidentally” stomped on it as he dragged one of the men off the others.

Hector’s chuckle echoed down the street.

Imelda spent her time in the market racking her brain for a single instance where Hector had followed her out of the house. She had only ever felt his presence in their home, she had assumed he couldn’t leave it. But now the faint sound of Hector’s guitar followed her as she ran her errands.

There were more fanatics, most weren’t calculating enough to actually reach Imelda, usually she only found out about these fans when she had company over and the men would boast about how they’d ran this fan or that out of town. One memorable exception was a young woman with a sweet smile, and a mean right hook. She managed to sneak past the musicos and the Hector Riviera Revenge Patrol to knock on Imelda’s door. 

As soon as Imelda opened the door the young woman attacked her, fortunately, Imelda had been holding a shoe at the time and had no qualms with using it.

She’d sported a shiner for the next week, anyone who saw it reacted with either sympathy or awe.

Mostly awe.

Things only got worse after Imelda traveled to the city to tell a judge her story. The courthouse had been surrounded by reporters and fans alike, and she was encouraged to play up her grief for her husband as the cameras flashed. The courtroom itself was empty with the exception of her, the judge, the stenographer, and the lawyers. She was offered a truly obscene amount of money to drop the case.

“Exactly how much money do you think I’d need to convince death to give my husband back?” she had asked the opposing lawyers with narrowed eyes, “I will accept no less.”

They hadn’t responded, and she had turned away from them in disgust.

The judge accidentally let slip to the press that after hearing her testimony he felt the case was all but over. The fans who rolled into town started seeming a bit desperate. Somebody painted threats on the side of her house. A few rocks were thrown through her window. A young couple were caught in the act of trying to burn down the house.

A few months into this pandemonium, Imelda stepped out of her house to head to a meeting with the sheriff and almost tripped over a young man holding a guitar. The boy had been lying on her stoop but immediately got to his feet, stuttering apologies as he did. Imelda examined him closely.

He didn’t look like any of the musicos from town.

“Who are you? What do you want? If this is about de La Cruz my lawyer has advised me-.”

“No! Well, yes, but also no-. I uh, I don’t really,” he shrugged, “I-I guess I just want to um p-pay respects? Or um apologize? I don’t know. I just um wanted to acknowledge, you know, how not great what you’ve been through is?”

Imelda frowned at him suspiciously.

He shuffled his feet and shrugged again, “I know you’ve probably had a lot of Ernesto fans knocking at your door, I read about that stuff in the news sometimes, b-but-. Well, maybe somebody else has come to offer their condolences, I mean, I hope other people have. B-but as an ex Ernesto fan, I-I feel like I should be one of them?”

“Ah,” Imelda said, not sure how to take this, “I am headed to the sheriff, do you know your way to the cemetery?”

“No?”

“Come, I will give you directions, you can pay your respects there,” she started walking, not bothering to check if he kept up with her. After a few beats he appeared in her preferary, so she launched into her explanation on how to get to Hector’s grave.

The boy hared off as soon as she was done, but reappeared outside her door as the sun fell, nervously strumming on his guitar.

“You’re back,” she informed him, through the window above his head.

He glanced up at her, then nodded, “I’ve been a traveling musician for a while, I don’t really know where else to go.”

“The inn.”

He grimaced sheepishly, “I’d need money for that.”

“Then take your guitar to the town square and make some.”

“I uh I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well… the only songs I know are- are your husbands.”

“Ah.” Imelda opened the window so she could stare at him.

“It doesn’t feel right, y’know? Singing his songs,” the boy told her, “not after what happened to him.”

Imelda sighed, leaning crossed arms on the window sill and staring up at the stars, “What do you want? My permission?”

The boy took a couple beats to think about it, “No, I think even if he came back from the dead and gave me permission it still wouldn’t feel right. It- I- His ability to sing his own songs was stolen from him, I-I could never-.”

He cut himself off and sighed, heavily.

Hector played a sad melody that echoed into the street. After a few beats, the boy strummed along, then trailed off.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he whispered.

“I know the feeling,” Imelda quietly admitted. It was easier, somehow, to be honest with this stranger than it was to be honest with her well-wishing neighbors.

The boy looked up at her, eyes shining with sympathy.

“My husband and I used to sing and dance together on nights like this,” she closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s ghost play a song of tragedy, “I still love music, I still love dancing, but to do it without him? What would be the point? It would never hold the same joy as it did when he was alive.”

“So you’ve just stopped dancing?”

“I… I have found other sources of joy,” she said, “other things that keep me going. Like my daughter, or the shoes I make, even the fight to ensure my husband is given the credit he is due. I do not dance any more, but then again, I didn’t use to know the pride to be found in a well made pair of shoes.”

The boy nodded, slowly, eyes growing distant. He looked down at the guitar in his hands, strummed out a few chords, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall of her house.

“Your husband was a genius-,” he started to say, but was cut off when Imelda broke out laughing.

Hector briefly stopped playing, then when he started again the song was at once playful and angry.

“Sorry, sorry, I-, sí, of course he was incredibly talented, he had a real gift,” she got herself under control, “b-but he also was an idiot. A complete fool.”

“What? Really?”

“Sí, first and foremost, he could have had any woman in town, but he chose the most difficult one he could find,” Imelda said, with a wry smile, “then there was his complete inability to make breakfast, he could make lunch and dinner just fine, but breakfast? If it was before that first cup of coffee it was beyond him. He was terrible at mopping, somehow, but always insisted that if he tried one more time he’d get the hang of it. And he always had way too much faith in people, the poor fool thought everybody in the world was as good hearted as he was.”

The boy gave her a few beats of silence, a chance to say more, then said, “He sounds pretty great.”

She took a deep breath to keep from crying, “I could talk about him all day, and only ever cover half of what made that idiot the love of my life.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Imelda didn’t respond, all too aware of the love song Hector had started playing.

Eventually, she gave the boy some food, and enough money to pay for a night at the inn. The kid hung around a month or two, joining the musicos in the square, only ever playing accompaniment. He helped to run a few of the more stubborn fans out of town, and last Imelda saw of him he was following some doe eyed girl to the train station, carrying both of their suitcases.

He was not the last of Ernesto’s ex fans to come give their condolences. Soon, there were as many well wishers running around town as there were enraged fanatics. Imelda never let any of them into her home, but she did agree to a memorial being set up for Hector in the town square.

Hector’s songs stopped sounding so sad.

Finally, there came the vultures in their fine suits. Lawyers who promised to get her three times the cash el Señor Bererra could, talent agents offering up a career with the stars if she sang Hector’s songs, even a few fellows with cameras who wanted to make a documentary about her situation.

After consulting her lawyer, Imelda sent each of them packing, but kept the contact information of the most earnest seeming documentarian.

“My only wish is for my husband to be remembered, for him to have the credit he is due,” she told him as she accepted his business card, “I don’t want any of this attention, but perhaps, when the court case is over, you might tell his story.”

“I would be honored,” the starry eyed young man had said, almost breathlessly.

When he was gone and the door was closed, Imelda remarked to Hector, “Hope that boy was just playing innocent, they’ll tear him to shreds in that business if he’s actually that naive.”

Hector chuckled, playing something light.

“Would you want your story told? They’d put it on the silver screen, you’d be even more famous than you are now,” she asked, walking towards the kitchen.

The guitar trailed off and she felt a sigh brush the back of her neck, a ragged voice next to her ear said, “I only want to come home.”

She stopped walking, staring straight ahead. She tried to swallow the emotion rising in her throat, then took a deep breath and continued on with her chores. The guitar picked back up, playing a song of longing.

Slowly, things started to wind down. The money from the various lawsuits started to trickle in, and just to make a point, Imelda donated most of it. As far as she cared, the day was won as soon as the world learned the truth, she never wanted the money. She wanted her husband, alive and whole, and if she couldn’t have him, she wasn’t about to accept Ernesto’s blood money as a substitute.

The well wishers and mourners now outnumbered the enraged fans.

Hector followed her wherever she went.

Coco started trying to learn how to play the guitar.

And somehow, Imelda felt that things weren’t quite over, that it wasn’t safe to let her guard down. So, she always answered the door with a shoe in hand, even though every time she opened it she was met with a friendly face.

Imelda thought perhaps she would finally have closure when she got Hector’s guitar back. Yet, even once it was sitting on their family’s ofrenda, surrounded by wedding and family portraits, there was still this nagging feeling that things weren’t over.

She wasn’t done, there was still more to do.

One night, a week after the last of Ernesto’s blood money had been donated, Imelda sat at her kitchen table. Her hands were cupped around some cinnamon tea that had long since gone cold. She was still, but her thoughts raced.

When they reached the finish line, she all but deflated.

“You need to move on,” she told the gently strumming guitar that had been trying to soothe her all night, “please Hector, I need to know you’ve found peace.”

His voice was quiet, but the kitchen shook from the emotion it held, “I will never leave you again.”

“Trust me, I am aware,” she huffed, being very careful not to shout and wake the whole house, “there will never be a day that goes by where I won’t miss you. But I’m not asking you to leave, not forever. I am asking you to move on, to go… I don’t know, wait for us at the pearly gates. Visit us on the day of the dead, and play Coco’s lullaby in heaven every night, but stop-. Hector, please, stop punishing yourself.”

As soon as those words were out of her mouth, Imelda knew what was left to do.

The air was still, the guitar silent. She could feel him, however, like a thick blanket on her shoulders, like a warm hand in hers, like a vow on their wedding day. She could feel him standing taut, every intangible muscle in his body tensed for action.

Imelda closed her eyes and prepared herself to lose him, to truly be without him.

“I forgive you, Hector,” she whispered, “I forgive you for leaving, I forgive you for dying, I forgive you for not being here. You can stop atoning now. You can rest.”

Like a cut guitar spring, the tension snapped and the heavy warmth lifted from her shoulders. She held her breath, waiting for the guitar to pick back up.

It didn’t.

“Hector?”

There wasn’t so much as a single note.

Imelda’s breaths sounded like thunder in the empty kitchen. One of them shook, then the next one came out sounding like a whimper. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. No invisible hand stroked her hair, there was no mournful melody to assure her she wasn’t grieving alone, it was just her, crying as quietly as she could in the empty room.

When she heard the creak of a floor board, she cut herself off mid sob. Holding her breath, she listened as quiet footsteps approached the kitchen, coming from the foyer where the stairs up to the bedrooms were. Swallowing a curse she took out her handkerchief and did her best to clean her face.

The footsteps were too heavy to be Coco’s and the only other people in the house were Imelda’s brothers, so when somebody pushed the kitchen door open behind her, she said, “Sorry hermano, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

But it wasn’t one of her brothers who responded.

“Oh no Imelda, you didn’t wake me,” a deep, smooth voice replied, “I’ve been up for hours. Drove all through the night to get here, in fact.”

Imelda gasped, standing from her chair and turning, “Ernesto?!”

He closed the door behind him, and smiled at her cooly, simmering rage lighting his bloodshot eyes. Ernesto’s hair was not quite perfect, his suit almost wrinkled, his stubble just a tiny bit more visible than was considered decent. By his standards, he was an absolute mess.

“Hola Imelda, how have you been,” he said, as casual as you please, despite the revolver held in his right hand, “I myself, I haven’t been well. You see, I’ve lost everything thanks to-.”

It took a few seconds for her brain to register what she was seeing, who was in her kitchen, then it clicked and without thinking, she took the chair and hit him with it.

“You’ve lost everything?!” She yelled as he staggered back, no longer caring if she woke the rest of the house, “You’ve lost everything? Hector has lost his life! I have lost my husband! My daughter has lost her father! All because you couldn’t write your own damn songs.”

He tried to speak, but she hit him with the chair again.

“Was it worth it? Was all the fortune and fame worth killing your best friend?!”

“It was,” he raised the revolver before she could hit him again, and although she snarled, still enraged, she stopped.

The last thing she wanted was for Coco to lose both of her parents.

“Well, good for you then,” she sneered, “so glad my husband’s death was so profitable for you.”

Ernesto glared, cocking the gun, “I worked hard to get where I was-.”

“Worked hard! Hah! Oh what?! Did your hand get tired stirring the poison in Hector’s drink?”

“Shut up,” he hissed.

But Imelda shook her head, “This isn’t one of your movies Ernesto, I’m not following your script. You killed my husband-.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to,” she smirked, “you wouldn’t be here threatening me if I did.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, “you didn’t need to prove it to ruin my life, which is why I’m not here to threaten you.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped, putting the chair down so she could put her hands on her hips.

“You know what the most painful part has been?”

“The feeling of the devil clawing at your soul?”

“What all this has done to my legacy,” he ignored her, apparently determined to get through whatever monologue he’d prepared for her, “I was going to be remembered as one of the greatest artists who ever lived, people would have worshiped me for the next hundred years, I was going to go down in history. But now? Now you have taken my legacy and turned it into ash to spread on Hector’s grave.”

“Hector shouldn’t even be in a grave,” Imelda said, through gritted teeth. If she wasn’t a mother, if she didn’t have Coco to think of, she would hit him with the chair again.

“And yet, he is. What good does it do to take my success and give it to him? He has no use for fame and fortune,” Ernesto chuckled a little and she snarled almost against her will, “even when he was alive, all this meant nothing to him. For whatever reason, all he wanted was you.”

“Did you ever stop to think that he would have let you sing his songs if you gave proper credit? That you could have had your fame and fortune, and he could have come home safe and sound?” Imelda interjected, she didn’t want to listen to this monster’s practiced speech, she wanted to know how he lived with himself, “Did you even try to negotiate, or did you skip straight to murder?”

Ernesto sighed, “I wanted to sing to the world, he wanted you. Since you have taken my dream from me, it is only fair that I take his.”

“You’ve already taken his dream, you killed him, remember?” she shook her head, making a sound of disgust, “All he wanted was to come home and you stabbed him in the back for it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Imelda, do you understand I am pointing a loaded gun at you?”

“Sí, it’s the only thing stopping me from beating you to death with a chair.”

“I’m here to kill you Imelda,” he took a step towards her, “you have killed my dream for Hector’s sake, so now I am killing Hector’s dream.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Sì.”

“No matter what I do?”

He nodded, and started to speak, but didn’t get the words out before she had raised the chair once more and knocked him back a few steps. The anger was still there, but now she was fueled just as much by fear, fear that if she hesitated Coco would be left an orphan by the night’s end.

Ernesto tried to point the gun at her, but she knocked his arm away even as he pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet leaving the chamber was deafening, but Imelda didn’t dare let it cow her. She swung the chair again, forcing him to jump back in order to avoid it. 

He raised the revolver again, and pulled back the hammer. She raised the chair for another blow, stepping towards him, but knew there was no way she’d beat his trigger finger.

The kitchen started to shake just as the second bullet whistled past her ear.

Imelda almost didn’t hear the guitar music over the sound of her own heartbeat. She had to put the chair down again so she could use it to steady herself as Ernesto was thrown to the floor.

The revolver flew out of his hand and across the room.

“What in the-?!” he started to say, then cut off when he apparently recognized the melody playing.

Imelda had never thought Coco’s lullaby could sound so haunting.

“Remember me,” Hector’s voice echoed low, multiplied and layered on top of itself, at once a guttural growl and a choir of  hissed whispers, “and prepare to say goodbye.”

“H-Hector?” Ernesto tried to right himself, only to get slammed back onto the floor.

“Remember me. You owe me for your life.”

Ernesto struggled against whatever force was holding him down as the shaking settled and the air froze, “Hector, what-?.”

“You tried to send me to heaven,” Hector sang, “but now you’ll burn in hell.”

Ernesto was lifted from the floor and pinned to the cabinets instead. 

“You killed me for my daughter’s song,” slowly, Hector appeared above Ernesto, face colder than it had ever been in life, his feet didn’t quite touch the floor, “I hope it served you well.”

The gun dragged itself back into Ernesto’s hand and he struggled against it as it raised itself to his temple, “How-?! What-?! No. No!”

“Remember me. The blood you spilt got you far,” Hector sneered, “Remember me. My stopped heart got you where you are.”

“Hector, I’m-. Please, I’m sorry, Hector please!”

“No, don’t try to beg! When you took everything from me,” Hector shook his head, fists clenched, “I’ll let you have one last breath to…”

Hector trailed off, the guitar plucking out a crescendo while a mismatched beat underscored the whispered echoes of his latest refrain.

“Remember me,” Hector commanded, disappearing from sight even as the hammer pulled itself away from the barrel.

As the guitar finished with an angry flourish, Imelda realized that mismatched beat was not accompinate like she’d assumed, but footsteps. The kitchen door slammed open and people spilled into the room. 

Imelda didn’t look at them, she couldn’t take her eyes off Ernesto as tears spilled down his cheeks. With the gun still jammed between his hand and his temple, the trigger twitched away from the barrel.

“No!” It wasn’t just one voice, but several. All combined the shouts were almost enough. But they couldn’t quite drown out the gunshot.

Ernesto’s body collapsed back onto the kitchen floor.

Imelda felt Hector’s presence slip away.

“Imelda,” one of her brothers, she didn’t bother to check which one, shouted as they pulled her into an embrace, “thank god, when we heard the gunshots-. The door, it wouldn’t open and-, and-, oh thank god you’re ok.”

“Señora Riviera,” the sheriff put a hand on her shoulder, “are you alright, did he hurt you?”

“He tried to kill me,” she said, faintly.

Several people gasped, and there was a great deal of shouting. A few people surrounded the body, blocking it from her view. She blinked, the world suddenly coming back into focus.

“Coco? Where is she, is she ok?” Imelda asked, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

“She’s with Oscar,” Felípe told her, only half letting her go, “come on, I’ll take you to her, before she comes racing in here and sees-. I’ll take you to her.”

Imelda allowed herself to be led away, the last thing she wanted now was for Coco to see a dead body in their kitchen. The sheriff called out a promise to take care of things behind her, and she turned to give him a polite thank you, but he was already bent over Ernesto’s body.

Felípe took her to the workshop, where she could hear a soothing melody playing on an invisible guitar. Inwardly, she sighed and wondered if she would ever convince Hector to move on after this.

When she stepped through the workshop door, Coco looked up and shouted, “Má!”

“Mija!”

They ran into each other’s arms and squeezed tight, Coco started crying. Imelda did her best to soothe her even as it started to sink in that she almost lost her life. Her daughter was almost orphaned. Then what would have happened to her?

Imelda shoved those thoughts away and focused on her little girl. She let the sheriff do as he promised and spent what was left of the night hugging Coco close.

When Coco was eventually asleep, and Imelda was alone with an invisible guitar, she drifted off. The transition from waking to dreaming was almost seamless. Almost.

“Ah, you’ve learned a new trick,” she remarked hollowly, even in her dream, she felt boneless, exhausted. She couldn’t stop picturing Coco in her funeral garb.

They were dancing, her in her wedding dress, him in his musico suit. He’d saved up and got a real suit for the wedding, a modest suit, but one meant for formal occasions rather than preforming; it had met an unfortunate accident shortly after arriving from the tailors. In hindsight, Imelda wondered if the accident had anything to do with the fact that Hector had lived with Ernesto at the time, Ernesto had never wanted Hector to settle down.

In real life, her family’s courtyard had been full to the brim with people. Here in her dream, it was just them. Cheek to cheek.

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Hector’s voice only sounded a little muffled, a little distant, “I-I was saying goodbye to Coco.”

Imelda blinked a few times, before the words made sense, “So, you’re moving on?”

“Uh, sí, eventually. I uh, I have to wait until the day of the dead,” he smiled sheepishly, she couldn’t see the smile, but she felt it pressed against her face and knew exactly what it looked like, “it-. I will need-. Leaving won’t be easy.”

Imelda nodded, then pulled back so she could see him, she drank his face in but couldn’t manage anything else, it took almost everything she had in her just to whisper, “I will miss you.”

“I will visit, every year, I promise,” he held her tighter, but the sensation was muffled, “although not like this. I-I don’t have any unfinished business anymore. Once I move on-.”

He cut himself off, but Imelda’s tired mind eventually churned out what he’d left unsaid. Hector would be at peace, but that meant she would lose him. For real this time. She swallowed back the urge to rescind her forgiveness, to come up with some other reason why he should keep haunting them. He could touch her sometimes, and talk to her in her dreams, and play his guitar. It was almost, almost, like he was alive.

But she loved him too much to keep him, “Promise me you’ll be happy. Wherever you go when…”

“I will be as happy as a man can be when he is separated from the love of his life, and his daughter.”

Imelda nodded, closing her eyes, resting her chin back on his shoulder, “Good enough.”

“And I will wait for you,” Hector said, “at the gates. However long you take, however long we are apart, I will wait for you, mí amor.”

They spent the rest of her dream dancing in silence, tears mingling on their joined cheeks.

The last month didn’t last near long enough. Hector managed to appear to her four more times, but never as solidly as he had on that night; he appeared to Coco once, to give his final goodbye, but Imelda didn’t find out about that until days after it happened.

It ended on the Day of the Dead. Imelda allowed Coco to stay up all night, and they danced along to the invisible guitar that followed Imelda wherever she went. Eventually, Coco could barely keep her eyes open, but stubbornly persevered through the night. Finally the toy guitar Hector had gifted Coco plucked out Coco’s lullaby, the last few notes seeming to echo through the room as the sun rose. 

Héctor dropped his skull on the desk. “How many more are there?” he grumbled into the freshly signed form. He never imagined death would involve so much bureaucracy.

“I’m sorry, senor,” said a woman who called herself a ‘recently deceased special cases manager’, “but hauntings require a lot of paperwork, especially after how long you lingered.” She gestured at the massive file with his name on it.

He lifted his head, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t want to linger.”  

“No one does, but that doesn’t change a thing,” The case manager dismissed, laying another form down in front of Héctor. “This one is a poltergeist activity report. On this, check of any objects you interacted with along with the typical type of interaction. Examples include smashing vases, moving chairs across the floor… that sort of thing.”

“But I couldn’t even touch anything.”

“Oh, that makes things easier.” She drew a line down a row of boxes and had him sign again. “Now, this next one is about interactions with paranormal investigators.”

Héctor stopped listening and let his eyes slide to the door. HE wondered what would happen if he simply walked out. Could they stop him? Was there a punishment? An amused smile came to his lack-of-lips. What could they do? Kill me?

“Senor Rivera…” The case manager glared down at him like a schoolteacher scolding a naught student. “We have a lot to get through and it will all go faster if you pay attention.”

Héctor sighed. “When do I get to see my family?” It was the only thing he cared about since he arrived in the afterlife. Hell, it was the only thing he cared about for a century.

“Your family was called down to the department when you arrived. You can see them as soon as you finish your paperwork.”

“So, another century?” he said, eyeballing the pile of paperwork he still had to get through.

“I demand to speak to the person in charge!”

The shout came from outside the room. Héctor knew that voice. “Imelda?” He got up from his chair.

“Senor,” the manager called as he walked out of the room. “You haven’t finished yet. Senor?”

He followed the voice to the open area of the Department of Family Reunions. There he saw her. She was older than he remembered and, like everyone else, a skeleton, but there was no doubt about it. The warmth that filled his ribcage confirmed it was her.

She was surrounded by family members he didn’t recognize. He could only assume they came about after he died. But there was one among them, an old woman with braided pigtails, who looked familiar. His phantom heart dropped when he realized who it was.

“You called my family down here, saying we have a new arrival,” she yelled at the woman behind the desk. “I thought it was my granddaughter or my grandson-in-law. You’re telling me it’s my no-good husband?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the name in our database,” the woman said, shrinking behind a strange white box.

“That’s impossible! Do you have any idea how old he’d be?!”

“It’s more complicated than that,” the woman explained. “You see, he was a ghost for some time. He arrived today but he died in…” she pushed some buttons on the strange box, “1921.”

Imelda’s jaw dropped. “1921?”

“Mamá, that’s the year he left for his tour,” Coco said.

Imelda shook the stunned look off of her face. “How did he die?”

The woman pushed some more buttons. “Let’s see, he listed his death as homicide via poison by… wait, that’s can’t be right…”

“What?”

“He listed his murderer as Ernesto de la Cruz, but he can’t mean the same…”

“I knew it!” Imelda slammed her hand down on the desk. “I always knew that man would only lead to trouble.”

“Mamá, when I was a girl, my friends would listen to Ernesto’s records,” Coco said, taking a step closer to her mother. “He’d sing Papá’s songs, but the record never had Papá’s name on it.”

“You’re saying he was killed over a few songs?” Imelda roared. Everyone with a right might cowered in fear. “When I get my hands on that spineless worm, he’ll regret every peso he made off of my husband.”

“I appreciate that you’d go to such lengths for me,” Héctor said, approaching the desk.

“You!” Imelda marched up to him and delivered a solid slap to his face. His skull spun all the way around. It was a strange new sensation to say the least. “Do you have any idea how long I waited for you to come home?!” she shouted.

“102 years?” he suggested. “That’s how long I’ve waited to see you.”

“Well, what kept you?” Imelda snapped. “You left so it was your job to come home.”

Héctor lowered his head. “You’re right. I wanted to. I was going to leave Ernesto on the tour and come home you and Coco. He toasted me on my way out, but he poisoned my drink. I died in the streets but my spirit made it to the train station. I was trapped there for a century before Miguel found me.”

“Miguel?”

“I met him.” Héctor could feel his won face light up. “I met Rosa and Abel. I met our granddaughter, Elena… If it weren’t for them, I’d still be trapped. They saved me. They set me free.”

Imelda’s face softened but she took a step back. She closed her eyes and he knew a battle raged in her head. It was a lot to take in, he knew. Accepting it would take time. Her eye snapped open, anger restored. “So what? You left me alone with a child to raise and-”

“Mamá,” Coco interjected, stepping up to them, “we should hear him out.”

Imelda’s mouth fell open. “Coco?”

“He’s been trying to come home all this time,” their daughter went on.

“And he’s only about a hundred years late,” Imelda snapped.

“I know you’re still angry, Mamá, but I’m not. Ever since I was a little girl, all I wanted was to see Papá again.” She took a few steps closer and smiled at him. To him, it was like seeing the sunshine for the first time. “Now he’s here.” She turned back to her mother. “He’s part of our family. I at least want to know what happened to him.”

Imelda’s eyes darted from Héctor, to Coco, to the rest of her family. They looked on expectantly, holding their breath for the answer. Finally, she sighed and said, “Fine, we’ll hear him out, but I make no promises about forgiveness.”

Coco smiled like she knew a secret. “It’s a start Mamá.”

She turned back to her father. Héctor wasn’t sure what to do first. His daughter was here, in front of him, for the first time in over a century. She held out her arms, letting him know it was okay. He dove in to hug her, holding her close. His heart hurt, it was so full of joy. His girl, his little girl, was here in his arms after all these years.

So much changed so quickly. Mere weeks ago, he was just another nameless specter. No family, no friends, no knowledge of the life he lived before. He thought he’d remain that way forever, doomed to that empty existence. Miguel changed all that; Miguel and the rest of his family.

Now he could hug his daughter again. He could feel his love for her and the love she had for him in return. He had a past, he had a future, and the present was beautiful.

Miguel and his cousins watched from the doorway as their Abuelita sat in the courtyard reading the newspaper.

“You think this is a good idea?” Abel asked?

“Not really, but it’s the only one I’ve got.” Miguel spent all night preparing what to say to her. He rubbed his thumb over the cover of the journal in his hands. He figured, if she wouldn’t listen to him, she might listen to Mamá Coco. Even then, it might not be enough, but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try.

“Maybe it would be better if one of us did the talking,” Rosa suggested.

Miguel shook his head. “No, it has to come from me.”

With one more breath, he stepped out into the morning sunlight. “Abuelita?” he said approaching the table. She flipped one corner of her paper down and peered at him over it. “I have something to show you.” He sat down beside her and set the book on the table. “I opened Mamá Coco’s gift. You know? The one she gave me right before she died?”

Abuelita put her newspaper aside, looked inquisitively at the book, and opened the cover.

“Careful,” Miguel instructed. “It’s very old and there’s a few loose pages.”

She turned to a random page and her eyes went wide when she saw the handwriting inside. “Miguel, what is this?”

He grinned. It was a small victory but those were the first words she spoke to him since that awful fight. At least he was making progress. “Mamá Coco gave me the journal she kept when she was young. She writes about a lot of things in here. She talks about Mamá Imelda and Tío Oscar and Tío Filipe. She talks about growing up in Santa Cecelia and working in the zapatoria… and she talks about music.”

Abuelita threw him a sharp look.

“I know, I know, it’s not your favorite subject,” he conceded, “but if you read her words, you’ll know she loved music too. Though, I already knew that because she’s the one who introduced me to music in the first place. She used to sing to me when no one was listening.”

Her lips curved downward into a hard frown. “You’re trying to use your Mamá Coco to justify your lies?”

“No, that not it,” he backpedaled. “I just meant that she loved music and she wanted to share it with the people she loved. She did it because that’s what her father did. She loved him and he loved her. She never believed he abandoned them on purpose and she was right. I know because I met him.”

Abuelita looked at him like he was trying to convince her the earth was flat.

“I know how it sounds, but it’s the truth. He’s the ghost who’s haunting the train station. I talked to him. Rosa and Abel talked to him. He went on tour with his best friend, Ernesto de la Cruz, always planning to come home, but when the time came, Ernesto wanted him to keep going.  He tried to go home anyway, and Ernesto murdered him for it, stole his songs, and became famous off of them. Now he’s trapped, but he’s still trying to come home.”

He placed the small photograph corner on the table, showing her Héctor’s face. She looked at it like she’d seen a ghost. Well, I guess she has.

“That’s him,” Miguel explained, sliding the picture closer. “His name is Héctor. Mamá Coco kept this for a reason.”

Abuelita kept staring at the photo. The initial shock left her face, but now, Miguel couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“All he wants is to see Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco again. That’s his unfished business. It’s why he’s still hanging on. He’s too late to meet them in person now, but there might still be a chance. You’re Mamá Coco’s daughter. I think if her met you, if he knew his family still loved him, it’d set him free. He’d be able to cross over and he’d finally return to Mamá Coco and Mamá Imelda.”

She was silent for a long time. Miguel resisted the urge to fill that silence. He knew she needed it and it was best to let her take this in at her own pace. “You lied to me,” she finally said. She didn’t sound angry, but hurt. “You lied to your whole family for years. After all those lies, why should I believe you are telling the truth now?”

Miguel felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m sorry I lied,” he began, gently taking her hand, “and I’m sorry for what I said to you on the night we fought. I regret that the most. I have no excuse for that. I was wrong to say those things. All I ever wanted was to share my love of music with my family. I still hope I can someday and I hope you’ll be there when I do, but this isn’t about me. Héctor is part of our family and he needs our help.”

She went quiet again and looked off into the distance. He thought he could see tears brimming on her eyes. “You don’t have to answer me right now. Here,” he slid the journal closer to her, “I’ll leave this with you. I hope you’ll read through it. I think Mamá Coco wanted us to know how she really felt.”

He waited for a response. When none came, he picked up the picture of Héctor and left her with her thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long she would think it over or if she’d consider it at all. He hoped she would, but not just for Héctor’s sake. Their whole family revolved around this one painful event. If they put Héctor to rest, maybe they could put that pain to rest as well.

[-]

A few days later, Miguel had his answer. He was hanging out in the living room with his cousins when Abuelita walked it, journal in hand. “Alright, when do we leave?” she asked, looking at Miguel.

He went dumb for a second. “Leave for what?”

“To see this ghost of yours of course.”

“You mean Héctor?” he asked, jumping to his feet. “You want to help him?”

She nodded. “At the very least, I can see what he has to say for himself.”

“Great, so when do you want to leave?” It was really best to let her take the reins from here.

“Tomorrow, bright and early” she said. Her voice made it clear there would be no argument.

“Right, of course Abuelita. Tomorrow.”

[-]

The drive back up to Mexico City was tense to say the least. It was nearly silent. The no-music rule was still in effect, after all. Rosa and Abel sat up front and exchanged a few words but that was about all the sound they had. Miguel sat in the back with Abuelita, who looked out the window with a determined look on her face. At least the quiet gave Miguel time to think about how best to approach this whole day. That last thing he wanted was for Abuelita to chew out her long-dead grandfather in front of a crowd who couldn’t see who she was yelling at. And he definitely didn’t want Hector’s first encounter with his long lost family to leave him feeling even more alone than he already did. He just had to cross his fingers and pray this all went smoothly.

When they arrived at the train station, Miguel begged Abuelita to let him introduce her. “Fine Miguel,” she agreed with a shrug. “This is your ghost. We’ll do it your way.”

Once they got inside, it didn’t take them long to find Héctor. He popped up in front of them as soon as they walked through the door. “Miguel, what are you doing back so soon? I thought you had a promise to keep with your family.”

“I did and kept it. In fact, I brought some of them.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at his cousin.

“I see. Hola Abel. Hola Rosa,” Héctor said cheerfully as he waved at them.

“I also brought my Abuelita,” Miguel said, gesturing toward her. “Abuelita, this is Héctor.”

“Can she see me?” Héctor asked.

Abuelita nodded. “I can.” From her awestruck expression, there was no doubt.

“That’s great! It seems your whole family can…” Something seemed to click in his mind and his face shifted into a thoughtful expression.

“About that, I did some more digging while I was at home and there’s a good reason we can all talk to you.”

Abuelita clutched Mamá Coco’s journal in her hands. Miguel gestured for it and she handed it to him without taking her eyes off Héctor.

“This Journal belonged to my great grandmother,” he said, showing it to Héctor. “She started it when she was fourteen. She wrote about her life in Santa Cecelia, her love of dancing and music, and she wrote about how much she missed her father. You see, he disappeared when she was a little girl. And her name was Coco Rivera.”

Héctor’s eyes went wide. If he could still breathe, it would have left him. “My Coco?”

Miguel nodded with a soft smile. He put his hands on Abuelita’s shoulders and gently guided her closer to the ghost. “Héctor, this is your granddaughter, Elena Rivera.”

“My…” He stared at her like he was seeing the sun for the first time. “I can hardly believe…”

“You…” Abuelita started. Miguel held his breath. “You…” she said again, apparently searching for the right word.

Miguel braced himself. Would it be an insult? A tirade about how he abandoned his family? Could he even hope she’d say something kind? Please God, let this go well.

“You’re a baby!” she said at last.

Miguel’s jaw hit the floor.

Héctor drew back and blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How old were you when you died?” she demanded.

Héctor’s eyes darted between her and Miguel. “Twenty one?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“No I’m telling…” He looked helplessly at Miguel who could only shrug. Neither were able to comprehend the awesome power of Abuelita.

“Dios mio, I have grandchildren older than you,” she sighed, shaking her head. “My boys were idiots at that age. It’s no wonder you got those ideas in your head. All this time I thought you were cruel and careless. Turns out you were just young and stupid.”

Héctor’s eyes turned to the floor. “You’re right. I was stupid. My stupid choice caused my whole family pain. I’m sorry.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

Héctor shook his head. “It’s all I think I have a right to say.”

“Don’t give me that,” Abuelita scolded. “I want to know exactly what you were thinking.”

“Abuealita,”Miguel interjected, “Héctor only recently got his memories back. I don’t think he’ll remember.”

“It’s alright Miguel,” Héctor said, floating closer. “I do remember.” He straightened himself up and looked Abuelita in the eye. “I remember that we were poor. I remember wanting to give Imelda and Coco a better life. I thought becoming a famous musician was the only way I could do that. I always planned on coming home. I never thought I wouldn’t make it and I never could have imagined why.”

“Your friend murdered you?” she asked frankly.

“Yes.”

“How long did you know him?”

He sighed. “My whole life.”

“How did he do it?”

“He toasted our friendship with a poisoned drink,” he answered with a bitter sneer.

Abuelita shook her head in disgust. “Coward,” she spat with the venom of a snake. “Well, you were stupid, but you didn’t deserve to die.”

Héctor’s face seemed to lighten up slightly. “Miguel mentioned before that after his great-great grandfather left, your family hated music. That you believed music tore your family apart.”

“That is true.”

He nodded sadly. “I am ashamed to be the cause of that. If I knew how much my family would suffer for my mistake, I never would have touched a guitar.”

“That’s nonsense,” Abuelita snapped, taking both Héctor and Miguel by surprise. “Miguel tells me your songs became very popular.”

“More like iconic,” Miguel corrected.

“If you have a talent like that, you should use it,” Abuelita affirmed.

Miguel thought he might lose his breath now. “Do you really mean that, Abuelita?”

She cast a teasing smile in his direction. “Do you think I’m a liar, Miguel?”

He beamed. “No, ma’am.”

Abuelita returned his grin and turned back to Héctor. “My family spent generations being angry at you. I used to think you were the slimiest, most self-centered snake to ever slither across the planet. I must say,” she let out a breath and smiled up at him, “you are not what I imagined. I think you’ve been punished more than enough, don’t you?”

Hope grew in Héctor’s eyes. “Does this mean you forgive me?” A faint glow began emanating from him.

Abuelita nodded. “I could never stay mad at my family, not when I know they meant well.” She gave Héctor a once-over and tsked. “Look at you. So skinny. That’s the real curse you put on my family. My sister, my son Enrique, and just look at Miguel.” She swung her arm in his direction. “All twigs thanks to you.”

Héctor laughed. “Now that I’m not sure how to apologize for.”

“Look at that, Miguelito,” she said, putting her arm around him, “you’ve got his dimple.” His cousins gathered around him as well. Héctor’s joy at seeing them all together radiated off him like the orange glow.

“Now what are you waiting for?” Abuelita said to him. “I think you’ve kept your family waiting long enough.”

Héctor’s light dimmed. “Do you think they’ll take me back?”

Abuelita gave him a sad smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer, but I read my mother’s journal and I do know this: she still loves you.”

Tears fell from Héctor’s eyes once again. There was no scent of tequila and not a trace of poison. These tears were real.

The orange glow around him grew brighter. The flesh on his fingers faded, revealing bone underneath.

“Héctor! Your hand!” Miguel cried as the skin continued to disappear.

Héctor smiled as he examined his hands, completely unalarmed by this change. “It’s alright, Miguel,” he laughed. “It’s alright. I feel better than I have in a century.” His flesh continued to burn away and he laughed as if filled with pure delight. “I love you all. I couldn’t wish for a better family.” His smile was enough to warm the hearts of everyone around him. “You set me free. I can’t thank you enough. Please never forget how much you love each other.”

“We won’t,” Miguel answered, tears filling his own eyes.

Little Coco ran to Miguel as soon as he came in the door. He dropped his bags and swept her up in a hug. She squealed and laughed as he swung her around.

“Careful,” his mama said, dodging her daughter’s flying feet.

“I’m fine Mama,” Coco answered, her face still squished in her brother’s chest. He brain suddenly switched gears and she started squirming out of his arms. “Put me down! Put me down! I have to get my picture!”

Coco’s feet touched the floor and she bolted down the hall. Their parents wore amused smiles as they watched her go. “Welcome home, mi’jo,” his mother said, kissing him on the forehead.

His father pulled him in for a hug. “I can’t wait to hear all about your trip.”

Miguel smiled.  His parents, it seemed, were back to normal. At the very least they weren’t angry with him anymore. He looked over at his aunts and uncle hugging Rosa and Abel and asking about their trip. At least they were trying to over the rapid-fire questions from Benny and Manny. Papa Franco was even in the mix. Only one person seemed to be missing.

“Where’s Abuelita?” Miguel asked.

His parents locked eyes and shared the same concerned expression. So, she’s still mad.

“She’s in the kitchen,” his mother finally offered.

Miguel thanked her, picked up his things, and made his way to the kitchen. There, he found her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. “Abuelita, look who’s back,” he said as he entered the room.

She barely glanced up at him then went back to her tea.

“Abuelo Roberto said he’s been working on his poker game, so you better watch out next Christmas.”

She ignored him still.

“Abuelita, can you please say something?” Miguel sat down next to her and rested his guitar case by the table leg.

Abuelita glared pointedly at it, stood up, and left the room without a single word to Miguel.  

Defeated, Miguel slinked off to his room. He parked his suitcase by the door and rested the guitar case on the bed. Now what? He sunk down onto the bed with his guitar. The rest of his family didn’t seem to be angry anymore, though they did seem to be a little nervous about the topic of music. He saw them glancing at his guitar, like he was carrying a bomb or something. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t like he had a drug problem or was getting into fights. All he wanted was to be a musician, but his abuelita seemed ready to disown him just for that.

And what was the problem, anyway? In this day and age? Sure, back when his great-great grandfather left, it was harder to stay in touch. But now? He had all sorts of ways to contact them and he could travel much faster. It wasn’t like the old days. He wouldn’t end up like his great-great grandfather. Why couldn’t they see that?

“Mama Coco, what do I do?” he said to the picture on the dresser. “They don’t trust me. They think if I leave, if I try to become a musician I’ll never come back, but I know I will. You know I will. I remember, you used to sing to me in secret. You loved music too. You would have wanted this for me. How do I convince abuelita that this is what’s right for me? How do I get her to trust me again?” He let out a heavy sign and slunk down onto the floor. “I wish you were still here.”

He let his forehead thunk against the dresser and felt something hit him on the top of his head. When he looked up, he found Mama Coco’s gift laying beside him on the floor. Maybe she is still here, he thought as he reached for the gift. Maybe she wants to tell me something.

He carefully undid the yellow ribbon and unwrapped the paper, making sure not to tear it. Pulling the paper away revealed a very old book. It was bound in brown leather. The pages grown yellow and brittle with age. He opened the cover. The first page contained a happy birthday message from Tio Oscar and Tio Filipe, Mama Coco’s uncles. Very small, on the bottom of the page, they wrote, “Our little secret. Don’t tell your Mama.” Was it a journal? A secret journal not even Mama Imelda knew about?

He opened to the first page, dated 1932. Reading on confirmed his suspicions. She wrote about her uncles giving her the journal in secret and in a typical teenage rambling, she went on about wishing her Mama gave her more freedom and privacy. She only wanted something all to herself, away from the prying eyes of her mother. She loved things she knew her mother would never approve of: music, and dancing, and her father.

The following pages were like stepping into a time machine and watching Mama Coco’s younger days play out. She wrote almost every day. She wrote about her friends, and wishing she didn’t have to lie to her mother whenever she went to the Plaza with them. She wrote about the sweet boy, Julio, who her friends were sure was taken with her. He shyly gave her a handful of wildflowers one day and she felt embarrassed and flattered and excited all at the same time. She wrote about sneaking out to go dancing with him and the massive fight she had with her mother on the day she got caught.

She also wrote about her father. She could still remember him, though her mother tried hard to make her forget. He used to dance with her, sing to her, and play for her. She could remember him playing a new song he wrote and asking her if she liked it, though she was barely more than a toddler at the time. More than that, she could remember how he used to hug her as tight as he could, how he made her laugh until she squealed, and how much Mama used to smile around him. He promised her he would never leave her for good, and he’d always come back. He loved her so much and she knew it even then, which was why she never believed he meant to disappear. If he didn’t come back, it was because something happened to him.

Once, she wrote about hearing an Ernesto De la Cruz song on the radio with her friends, and not being about to explain her sudden change in mood to them. An idea began to creep in the back of Miguel’s mind. No, it couldn’t be. He read on:

               Gloria was the first to notice I was upset. I told her I was fine. Then Ana Maria and Alicia starting asking what was wrong. I kept saying I was fine but they wouldn’t let it go. Finally I told them I was worried about my Mama finding out I was listening to the radio and they just laughed and dropped it. They all know about her rules, the whole town does. It wasn’t like they’d believe the real reason anyway.

               But I remember Tio Ernesto. He was Papa’s friend. He’d been to our house. He was there as far back as I can remember, at least until Papa disappeared. They’d call me a liar if I told them this, even worse, they’d call me crazy. Saying the biggest star in the world stole my Papa’s songs? Maybe even hurt him? No proof, no evidence, just a feeling? No one would believe me. Not even Mama believes me.

Miguel’s stomach slowly turned as he read this. The pieces came together in his mind. Could Mama Coco’s father, the one who left, be the ghost in the train station? Could he be Hector? No, it was too much of a coincidence. Of all the people in the world… Why can I talk to him, then? And Rosa and Abel? Why can we talk to him when no one else can? This couldn’t just be a coincidence. There had to be more to it.

He flipped through the pages, hoping to find something to confirm his newly-formed theory, when a folded-up piece of paper fell out from between the pages. It was just as old, if not older than the journal. He unfolded it to find a letter written to Coco. It contained lyrics to an Ernesto de la Cruz song, yeas before Ernesto himself sung it. It also had little drawings on the bottom and ended with “Love, Papa.”

His heart beat faster and he searched through the journal. More old letters fell out. Not all of them contained lyrics, but they all expressed his love for his daughter and promised he’d be back soon. The handwriting all matched. If someone were to match the handwriting on the letters to the handwriting in the original song book… All these years, the proof has been sitting in my house, on my dresser. But he didn’t think that was the reason Mama Coco gave him this gift. She didn’t care about her father being famous. She only wanted to share some happy memories, to show someone how she really felt, and maybe she just wanted someone to remember her father the way she remembered him.

We probably all would if it weren’t for Ernesto. If his hunch was correct, and the ghost Hector and his great-great grandfather were one and the same, then Ernesto is responsible for the heartache his family went through for generations. Hector was nothing like the man his family thought he was. He loved his family so much. All he wanted was to provide for them with his music. He tried so hard to go home to them. He was willing to give up fame for them and Ernesto killed him for that.

He turned to the very back of the book and noticed that the lining on the back cover was loose. He peeled back the corner and found a scrap of an old photograph. The untamed head of hair in the photo was strikingly familiar and it caused Miguel to pause. He reached in and slipped the photo out. Hector’s face grinned back at him.

He recognized the shape of the tear immediately. This was the missing piece from the picture of Mama Imelda and young Mama Coco. All these years, the truth about the family secret was right here in his room. Mama Coco’s papa, he hadn’t abandoned them at all. He was coming back. He was always going to come back. And now, his ghost was trapped in a train station, still trying to get home over a century later.

Photograph in hand, Miguel darted out of his room. “Rosa! Abel!”

His cousins met him in the hall.

“What?”

“Why are you yelling?”

“Look! Look at this!” Miguel held the photo out to them.

Rosa adjusted her glasses. “Is that Hector?”

“Where did you get this?” Abel asked.

“It was in Mama Coco’s gift,” Miguel explained. “She wrote a journal when she was a girl and she gave it to me. She wrote about a lot of things, but also about her papa. And there were letters; letters with Ernesto de la Cruz lyrics, dated way before those songs came out.”

“So Hector was the one who abandoned Mama Imelda?” Rosa asked.

“No, don’t you get it? He didn’t abandon them. He was trying to come home, but Ernesto de la Cruz murdered him. If it weren’t for Ernesto…”

That’s right, Ernesto. Ernesto was the one who murdered Hector all those years ago. If it weren’t for Ernesto, the music ban never would have happened. If it weren’t for Ernesto, Mama Coco wouldn’t have grown up without her father. If it weren’t for Ernesto, Hector wouldn’t have spent a hundred years alone.

Miguel’s face hardened. He balled up his fists and he stormed out of the house. His cousins chased after him.

“Miguel, where are you going?” Rosa said, following him out the door.

“The cemetery.”

“Why?” Abel asked. “What are you going to do at a cemetery?”

“I’m going to go yell at a dead guy.”

“What? Ernesto?”

“Yes, Ernesto! He murdered our great-great grandfather!”

“Miguel, come back,” Rosa shouted after him. “You look deranged.”

“I don’t care. He murdered Hector and got away with it. Hell, he profited off of it. It’s about time he faced some consequences.”

“And you think a famous ghost is going to care what some random guy has to say?” Abel put in.

“He might when he finds out I am. Or rather, who my great-great grandfather was.”

His cousins tried to get him to turn back as he marched his way to the cemetery, but they were unable to sway him. He led them all the way to Ernesto’s mausoleum. Momentum carried him lengths ahead of his cousins. By the time they caught up to him, he was already picking the lock.

“Do I want to know why you can pick a lock?” Rosa snapped in a whisper when she came up behind him.

“Relax, it was nothing bad,” Miguel answered. “Remember when Abuelita found my guitar and locked it in the shed until I found someone to sell it to?”

“But you didn’t sell it,” Abel said. “You told me you got a kid at school to pretend to buy it and give it back to you.”

“I did but I still had to practice in the meantime.”

The lock clicked open and Miguel swung the iron doors. He saw the portrait of Ernesto smirking at him from the wall and it sparked his anger again. “Come out you murdering psychopath!” Miguel shouted and he stormed into the mausoleum. “Where are you, you hack?! You song thief?!”

“Shut up,” Rosa snapped in a whisper. “Someone’s gonna call the cops and I don’t think they’ll buy your ‘this dead celebrity killed my ancestor’ excuse.”

“So we’re really doing this huh?” Abel said stepping inside, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. “We’re really provoking the ghost of a murderer?”

“Ha! You hear that!” Miguel whisper-shouted at the portrait. “Your legacy’s already going down. You’re going to be remembered as a fraud and a murderer. Not to mention the world’s worst friend.”

“I don’t think he cares how good a friend he was,” Abel pointed out, “you know, considering the murder and all…”

“Well, he does care about how he’s remembered.” He marched up to the portrait, fire burning in his eyes so hot, it stung even him. “You hear me, you liar! You thief! You murderer!” His voice echoed off the mausoleum walls. “You didn’t just steal a couple songs. You stole Mama Coco’s father from her. You stole a man from his family. You stole the life they could have had together and you let them think he left them on purpose. You killed your best friend and you caused my family pain for generations. It stops here. I am the great great grandson of Hector Rivera and I am proud of it. And I won’t let you steal from my family anymore!”

In response, A weak wind blew, maybe just strong enough to muss up some dust. A stray dog barked in the distance. A car drove down the road. He might have heard a small animal running in the grass outside. That was it.

He was here, his cousins were here, but no one else.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. It felt good in the moment. It felt good to get the words out and give Ernesto a long-overdue tirade. But he was still unfulfilled. Ernesto de la Cruz would never hear his words. He would never face justice for his crimes. He was gone, his legacy untouched. Meanwhile, Hector paid for one mistake with his life and a hundred years of loneliness.

“Hey cuz,” Abel said, coming up behind Miguel and putting his hands on his shoulder. “You get that out of your system?”

“He’s not here, Miguel,” Rosa added, her voice much softer now. “Ernesto de la Cruz is long gone. All that’s left of him is a pile of bones in a box.”

“In a big mausoleum,” Miguel spat, breaking away from his cousin. “He’s visited by thousands of people every year. Who even knows where Hector’s body is? It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” Rosa agreed. Miguel was surprised by how firm and series her voice suddenly became. “Ernesto de la Cruz murdered our great-great grandfather and never faced a single consequence. Hector died in the street alone while his murderer got to die rich and happy. It’s not right, but it’s the way things are.”

“To be fair, he probably didn’t die too happy,” Abel pointed out, “at least not in the last few seconds…you know…cause of the bell…” Abel used his hands to imitate the falling bell and made a crunching noise with mouth. “Wouldn’t have left a very pretty corpse, come to think of it. Probably looked nothing like that picture up there.”

Rosa looked over at him, eyebrows twisted with annoyance. “Can you stop?”

“It isn’t fair,” Miguel sighed, slumping down against a wall. “Hector’s been alone for so long. We’re his family. We should be able to do something for him.”

His cousins knelt down beside him and Rosa put her arm around his shoulders. Then, soft music disrupted the quiet of the cemetery. Miguel recognized the tune. He looked up at the guitar on the wall. The stings moved and vibrated seemingly all on their own. Without a player, the guitar plucked out a soothing, melodic rendition of Remember me.

“Is it Ernesto?” Abel whispered, staring up at the guitar in awe.

“No.” Miguel stood up and approached the guitar on the wall. It must be his. All these years… “I know this version. That’s not Ernesto. That is Hector.”

“Hector? How?”

“His invisible guitar. It’s not invisible at all.” His smile grew bigger. “It’s right here. He’s been playing this one.”

“So if that’s his guitar, maybe all we have to do is bring it back to him,” Abel suggested, beginning to smile himself. “Then he’ll be able to cross over.”

Rosa rolled her eyes. “Yeah that’s a good idea. Let’s steal the most famous guitar in Mexico and take it to a very public place. I’m sure that’ll work out great.”

Miguel though about it for a moment. It seemed logical. Hector was killed for his music. If they reunited him with his instrument, it could let him cross over to the afterlife. But it still didn’t fit. During all the time Miguel spent with Hector, never once did the ghost lament the loss of his guitar, not even after regaining his memories. This wasn’t part of his unfished business. In truth, Hector only longed for one thing.

“I don’t think that’s right. Hector can already play his guitar any time he wants. He doesn’t need to have it physically with him. Besides, it’s not what he really wants. All he ever wanted was to go home to his family.”

“So, for him to move on, we need to get him home,” Abel said.

“But he can’t leave the train station,” Rosa pointed out. “How are we supposed to get him back to Santa Cecilia?”

“Well, he wants to go home because that’s where his family is. Maybe if we bring family to him…”

“But we’re family,” Rosa said. “If that was true, he should have been able to cross over after meeting us.”

Miguel deflated, hoping leaking out of him. “I don’t know why.” He listened to the music playing from the guitar on the wall. It was home, Hector wasn’t. Hector, who only wanted to see his family again, who was more concerned about Miguel than himself, who didn’t want Miguel to make the same mistake he did… Hector wasn’t just a mysterious ancestor, torn out of his own legacy. He was Miguel’s friend, his family. I will help him. I will find a way to bring him home. “Hector can’t be trapped forever,” he said, his fists curled, resolve renewed. “We must be missing something.”

“Well, we don’t need to figure it out here,” Rosa said, putting her arm around him. “Let’s go home.”

Together, the cousins made their way home. Miguel barely made it in the door before Coco rushed him again.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, slamming her tiny fists on her hips. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry, Coco.” He crouched down to her level with an apologetic smile. “We just went for a walk. That’s all.”

“Well, I drew you a picture.” She grabbed his hand and forcefully pulled him to the living room. She grabbed a piece of paper off the table and jammed it in his face.

Miguel took it. It was a drawing of a colorful bird. She must have used every color in the box. I saw a pretty bird today and it made me happy, he remembered. Would it help if I drew it for you? Tears brimmed on his eyes and he scooped Coco into a hug. “I love it, Coco. You were right. It did make me feel better.”

“I knew it would,” she said, hugging him back. “I just wanted you to come back.”

“Aw, Coco, I’ll always come back.” He hugged Coco tighter. Hector was right. He probably promised his Coco the same thing, but there was no guarantee. Miguel was going to be there for Coco as much as he could. He was going to watch her grow up, go to school, do whatever fabulous things she wanted ot do with her life… Hector may have lost the chance to be with his daughter, but Miguel wasn’t going to squander any chances to be with his sister.

When they arrived at the train station, Abel and Rosa asked if he wanted them to go in. He thanked them, but decided he wanted to go in alone. I’m the one who messed things up. I should be the one to fix it.

Over the last few days, Miguel had grown used to being greeted by ghostly guitar music and Héctor calling his name. Today, he was met with only the rumbling bustle of the train station. Instead, Miguel scanned the crowd, hoping to see the ghost’s transparent head or floating feet. “Héctor?” he called. A few living men turned and glanced at him before shrugging and moving on, but no ghosts.

Suddenly, he felt something cold whoosh by him. He turned to his left to see Héctor materialize right before his eyes. The ghost gave the glass doors a determined look. He sped toward them, phased through, then rematerialized back inside. Héctor let out a frustrated huff and geared up to try again.

“Héctor?” Miguel tried again. “Ghost Héctor? What are you doing?”

The ghost looked up and his eyes widened when he saw who called his name. A trickle of blood at his lips suddenly disappeared. “Miguel!” He rushed forward and threw his arms around his friend. “I am so sorry, Miguel.”

“You’re sorry?” Miguel asked. A cold tingling enveloped him under the ghost’s attempt at an embrace.

“When I saw you were gone, I was afraid I scared you away, but then I started thinking about how awful you felt when I looked into your soul. I spent all night trying to get out and find you but…”

“Héctor, it’s okay. I’m okay,” Miguel said, hearing himself imitate his father’s comforting tones. “I actually came here to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?”

“For not believing you and…” he swallowed, “for not telling you everything.”

“What are you talking about, Miguel?”

He moved toward a bench by the windows. “You might want to sit down if you can. There’s a lot to go over.”

“Okay, you’re starting to worry me with that face,” Héctor said with a nervous laugh as he perched on the bench beside Miguel. “What’s going on?”

Miguel let out a heavy breath and looked at the floor. He wanted to stare at the tiles for the whole confession, but he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Look them in the eyes. It doesn’t count unless you look them in the eyes. He looked up. “First of all, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about being Ernesto’s music partner, and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you wrote your songs.”

“What changed your mind?

“My cousins and I did some research,” he explained. “We found old newspaper ads from Ernesto’s first tour and for every ad up until he left Mexico City, there’s a Héctor listed right next to his name. But that’s not all. You know that songbook I told you about? They’ve actually compared the writing in it with samples of his and it didn’t match. They even compared it with examples of his handwriting from the time the book was written, but it still wasn’t a match. There’s a lot of people who think he lied about writing the songs. I never believed it, but now, with you claiming you wrote them, when you have nothing to gain by it and weren’t even alive when he was famous… it just makes too much sense.”

He went quite for a short moment. “If you knew this already, why did it take you a day to believe me?”

A lump formed in Miguel’s throat. He knew the answer, but it seemed so stupid compared to what the ghost had to go through all these years.

“Because I wasn’t ready,” he admitted. The shame pulled his eyes away. “I’ve looked up to de la Cruz practically my whole life. You see, a long time ago, my great-great grandfather abandoned his family to pursue his dream of becoming a famous musician. He never came back. Ever since then, my entire family hated music. They think music is what tore our family apart. But, I just can’t help it. I love music. It just… The way it makes me feel… When I hear a great song or I play my guitar, my imagination goes wild and I feel a fire in my chest. Not like heartburn or something, but more like… the sun is coming from inside me.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Héctor answered. “It is your passion, a part of you.”

Miguel’s face lit up. “Yeah, and that rush you get when performing, or that feeling when you finally find the right note or the right word… With music, I can say things I can’t say any other way. There’s nothing like it.”

“You are an artist, Miguel.” Warmth radiated from Héctor’s smile. “That is why you feel this way. You can’t help being a musician."

“Well, my family doesn’t want me to be a musician,” Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s why I idealized de la Cruz so much. I’d hear his songs or watch his interviews and I’d think, ‘He gets it. He would understand how I’m feeling.’ Sometimes, before my cousins found out, I’d think he was the only person in the world who would support my dream. When it became clear he was just a liar and a thief, even when the evidence was staring me in the face, I couldn’t accept it.”

“I see, but you understand there are more musicians in the world than him, ones who share your drive to create.”

“Like you.” Miguel could hardly believe it. He was finally having the kind of conversations he hoped to have one day. He always wanted someone, another musician, who shared his passion, who would understand. Who’d have thought he’d find that in a hundred-year-old ghost?

Then he remembered. He wasn’t here to talk music. He was here on business. “I’ve always wanted someone to talk about this stuff with, but I’m afraid there’s more to tell.”

“Okay, uh, you look serious again…”

Miguel swallowed. There’s no good way to do this. “Héctor, do you remember much about how you died?”

“Let’s see…” He closed his eyes to concentrate. When he opened them again, they glowed white. “I was walking to the train station when I felt a pain in my stomach.  I remember falling to my knees, but after some time, the pain passed and I felt fine again. I got up and kept walking. I made it to the station but no one could see me or talk to me. It took me a while to accept it, but eventually I realized I was dead and I was a ghost.” The light went out of his eyes and he turned back to Miguel. “That’s all I remember.”

“What about before? You said Ernesto was there and he gave you a toast.”

“He did, that’s true.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“You mean that he would move heaven and earth for me?” Héctor answered bitterly. “Instead, all he did was steal my music and try to erase my existence.”

Miguel nodded slowly. Now came the hard part. “Yeah, well, the thing is, Ernesto de la Cruz wasn’t just famous for his music. He also starred in a lot of films.” Does he know what films are? No time to explain, just move on. He quickly pulled up a video on his phone. “In one of them, there’s a character who says something very similar and, look.” He turned the phone so that Héctor could see it.

I would move heaven and earth for you mi amigo. Salud!

Gah! Poison!

As he heard the clip play out, Miguel looked away, hoping to give the ghost some semblance of privacy. He wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was when telling someone they may have been murdered. Would Héctor want privacy? Would he want to talk about it or be left alone? Would he even understand what Miguel was trying to show him?

“Poison?”

Miguel looked back.

The tears on the ghost’s face dried in an instant. “He poisoned me…”

“There’s no way to be sure-”

“No I can be sure.” Héctor’s voice remained quiet. “I remember now, wondering what could have caused my death, if it was something I ate or drank. Now I know. That drink was the last thing I had before I died. Come to think of it, he hid the glasses while he poured it. I thought nothing of it. I never imagined…” His face melted into rage and he rose up toward the ceiling. “How could he do that to me?!”

Miguel opened his mouth then shut it again. What could he say? What was there to say?

The lights flickered rapidly as Héctor continued his tirade. “We were friends! Our whole lives! I never saw my family again! I’ve been trapped here for over a century! All for a few songs? Was that all my life was worth to him?”

“Héctor? Maybe you should…”

“He took my songs! He took my future, my life, my family! He took everything from me!”

The florescent lights overhead burst and the smell of smoke filled the train station. Miguel thought he could feel a sharp shard prick him as it fell. The people around them muttered frantically and the station staff hurried to try to fix the problem.

“Héctor?” Miguel tried again.

The ghost looked down at Miguel. The rage on his face faded and he descended back down to earth, deflated. “I’m sorry, Miguel.”

“No, don’t be. If there were ever a time to blow-up the lights…”

“It’s my fault,” Héctor said. He slumped on the bench, hunched over, eyes toward the floor. “I should have seen Ernesto for what he was. I should have left him sooner. In fact, I never should have left my family at all.”

“It’s not your fault.” Miguel tried to put a hand on Héctor’s back but it went right through. Instead, he held his hand where the specter’s body began and let the cold nip at his hand. “You said you and Ernesto were friends for your whole lives. You should have been able to trust him. He’s the one who betrayed you.”

Héctor looked up. A weak smile tugged at his lip, then disappeared.

“Have you noticed you stopped crying?”

“It seems I have,” the ghost said as he put a hand to his cheek. “Poison tequila, right? I guess, in some way, I always knew.”

“So, no more uncontrollable crying, no more bleeding from the mouth,” Miguel said with an attempt at a smile. “Those must be good signs, right?”

“Maybe,” Héctor looked down at his transparent hands and flexed his fingers. “I know now who I am and why I’m here.”

“But something’s still wrong.”

“Of course there is!” He rose up off the bench. “I just found out my best friend murdered me! I spent a century tapped here! Is this all there is for me?” He sighed and deflated, lowering himself back down again. “I always thought, once I remembered my past, I’d cross over. At least then, I’d get to see my family again. I could tell them how sorry I was that I left, that I stayed away so long. I never came back to them. They never knew I was dead. Do they think I abandoned them? That I didn’t love them enough to come home? They must hate me…”

“Héctor…”

“If I could just see them again, I could tell them that all I wanted was to come home. Every day on that tour, I wished I could be home with them.” He closed his eyes and clutched his hands at his chest. “I love them so much, Miguel. I love them so much that it hurts. I used to never feel anything before but now, it hurts just knowing I may never see them again.”

Miguel chewed his lip as he thought. Héctor had his memories back, at least the important ones, but it still wasn’t enough. Something still had to happen, but what? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. “You will,” he said firmly.

Héctor looked up. “What?”

“We’re going to make that happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to figure out whatever it takes to get you to the afterlife.” He tried to put his hand on Héctor’s shoulder, but it phased through. He accepted the cold tingles on his hand and he continued.  “You’re going to see your family again and I’m not going to give up until that happens.”

Héctor flashed a weak smile, but it quickly dissolved. “But when I first met you, you said you had to go home at the end of the week. How much time do you have left? The days run together in here so…”

“I don’t have to go home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m staying with my grandparents and I’m going to live with them while I go to university. I’m coming back in a few months so I might as well just stay. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s settled. I’m staying in Mexico City.”

A familiar scolding tone sounded from behind him. “What do you mean you’re staying?”

Miguel turned to see his cousins standing behind him. Rosa hand her arms crossed and glared at him in a way that reminded him of Abuelita’s stories about Mamá Imelda. “Rosa?” Miguel said with a shaky laugh. “I thought you guys were outside.”

“We saw the lights flickering and got concerned,” Abel answered. He didn’t look as mad as his sister, but he was giving Miguel a sorry-but-I’m-siding-with-her kind of look.

“Oh yeah, well there’s good news,” Miguel piped up, hoping to add some levity to the situation. “Héctor remembered his death and he was definitely murdered by de la Cruz.” He paused and cringed as he heard what he just said. “I realize that doesn’t sound like good news now that I’ve said it out loud but…”

“Forget it,” Rosa snapped. She softened her glare as she turned her attention to Héctor. “I’m glad you’re getting your memories back, but we need to talk to Miguel real quick.”

Rosa grabbed his hand and pulled him away leaving Héctor floating by the bench. “What’s this about staying in Mexico City?” Rosa said, once they were out of the ghost’s earshot. “Our family expects us back in Santa Cecelia in 2 days.”

“I know but I can’t just leave anymore,” Miguel replied. “Héctor needs my help.”

“With what?” Rosa snapped in a hushed tone. “He remembers his past and he’s still here. What more can we do?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out. I promised him.”

“You promised Abuelita, remember?”

“It’s just a little bit longer.”

“It’s just a little bit now,” Abel cut in, “but then it’ll be a little bit more and a little bit more until you never come home.”

“You don’t know that,” Miguel argued. What was with them? He was only going to stay a few extra days or weeks. Sure, didn’t know exactly how much longer he’d be here, but it wasn’t like…

“Remember Mamá Coco?”

Miguel’s blood went cold as soon as those words left Rosa’s lips.

“Rosa…” Abel said in a warning tone.

She ignored him and pressed on. “Remember how, toward the end, she used to stare at the door and say she was waiting for her Papa to come home? Remember how painful that was for Abuelita to watch? You want to leave her like that? Staring at the door, hoping that maybe one day you’ll walk though it? Maybe it’ll be little Coco waiting for you.”

Her words sent a sharp pain through his heart. “That’s a low blow, Rosa. I’m not going to be like him. I’m coming back, just not now.”

“Maybe you won’t be like him and maybe you will. That’s up to you,” Rosa said sternly with a steady stare. “But if you don’t want to be like him, you need to start by keeping your promises. You can’t just say you’re coming home, you need to do it and you need to do it when you promised you would.”

“Miguel, go home.”

Miguel turned to see Héctor hovering just over his shoulder. “Héctor, I…”

“It sounds like you have an important promise to keep,” he continued.  

“Helping you is important.” Miguel felt a lump form in his throat. How could Héctor be saying this? He’d been alone for a hundred years. Was he really willing to go back to that again?

“Miguel, all I want is to see my family again,” Héctor said softly. “I can’t keep you from seeing yours. You might think you’ll never run out of chances to be with them, but the fact is you will, and you never know when that day will come.”

Miguel blinked back the tears forming in the rims of his eyes. “I can’t leave you.”

Héctor smiled and floated down to Miguel’s eye level. “I’ll be alright,” he said, putting a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “It’s only a few months. I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?”

“But-”

“Miguel, you’ve already helped me more than I can ever repay. Go, see your family. I’ll be alright.”

Miguel leapt forward and put his arms around his friend as best as he could. “I’m coming back for you. I won’t let you be all alone again, I promise. I’ll help you cross over. You’ll see your family again, whatever it takes.”

“So, you actually talked to the guy?”

“Yes,” Miguel explained for about the millionth time. He and Abel were sharing his uncle’s old bedroom and Abel asked him questions constantly. He apparently couldn’t get his head around it. Abel always like scary stories & movies, but lately he was getting into unsolved mystery/true crime/paranormal stuff. He didn’t really believe in the weirder things, but he says it’s just fun to imagine what-if. This ghost, however, he always liked to believe was real.

“What, exactly do you mean by ‘talked to him’?” Abel asked, pressing his hands together.

“Like, normal talking?” Miguel tried to explain, “Like we’re doing right now? Except, he doesn’t move his lips. You just sort of hear him in your brain.”

“Does that feel weird?”

“It did at first, but you get used to it.”

“Wow, I bet no one ever got up that close to him before.”

“He did say most people can’t see him once they get too close. Wait, how did you know that?”

“He’s a legendary ghost. He’s not just in those touristy books moms likes. Here, look.” Abel took his laptop out of his backpack and Miguel sat down on Abel’s bed to have a look. They looked up Musician with Poison Tears on the internet. The screen showed a long list of links to web pages, videos, and even fanfiction about the ghost.

“Wow, people ship him with Eyeless Jack?”

“Ugh, ignore Wattpad and look at this.” Abel clicked on an amateur sleuthing blog. “This guy did some pretty in-depth research on the subject.”

Abel passed the laptop to Miguel and he began clicking through. It was one of those websites with a black background, photo shopped banner, and white text in typewriter font. It reminded him of the Zodiac Killer website Abel showed him once. He clicked on the About Us tab and found that the website had a few different contributors, but the main author claimed to be a private investigator who researched cold cases in his spare time. That could be helpful if true but then this was the internet. For all they knew this was a bored 13 year old with too much time on his hands. But then again, Abel was usually pretty good about sniffing out hoaxes. Miguel kept looking.

The website had different tabs on the top with different subjects the author researched. They were mostly true crime and supernatural cases. The Musician with Poison Tears had a tab all his own. Miguel clicked on it and scrolled through the articles. Some of it was stuff he already found on his own: basic legend, notable sightings, possible victims of supernatural justice, that sort of thing. One article caught his attention. It was called Possible Identities.

It began by explaining that the identity of the ghost was unknown, that it usually disappeared before people could get a good look, blah, blah blah… It also included a grainy picture someone took from far away. It showed the ghost’s profile, but the only details that could be made out were shaggy black hair and a large nose. Miguel had seen this picture plenty of times before, but at least now he could verify that this was, in fact, the ghost. He could tell by the mariachi suit the ghost wore.

He scrolled down a bit more to find a list of profiles of possible identities. Most of them were missing persons or unidentified bodies reported in Mexico City around the time of the ghost’s appearance. Some of them included photos or police sketches. He scrolled past them pretty quick as none of them looked like his ghost friend. He was about to tell Abel this website wasn’t helping, but froze when he came to the last picture.

If it weren’t for the events of that morning, he might have scrolled right past it. It showed a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He was dressed in a shirt and jacket of the times. Miguel couldn’t tell eye color from the black & white photo, but the ghost had irises and pupils which was more than what he had now. The most prominent feature, however, was the grin. It showed off his dimples and brightened up the rest of his face. It both warmed and hurt Miguel’s heart at the same time. The ghost was once happy.

He read the description next to the picture.

This man was found dead in an alley in Mexico City in 1921 only a few blocks from the train station. Age assumed to be somewhere between 18 and 30. His pockets contained this picture of himself, as well as the beginnings of a letter addressed to someone known as “mi amor.” He also held an empty tequila bottle in one hand. No one came forward to claim the body, despite the letter indicating he had loved ones. The police’s top theory is that he was rejected by his lover and accidently drank himself to death that night.

“This is him,” Miguel muttered, mostly to himself. It all fit. The year, the train station, the tequila… Not to mention the fact that the face was a perfect match. “Abel, it’s him!” He shouted, smacking his cousin in the shoulder.

“Really, you’re sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure,” Miguel said. “It looks just like him. Plus, look at the details. He was found near the train station. He died drinking tequila…” The only thing he wasn’t sure about was the lover. The ghost remembered a little girl, but didn’t mention a lover. He obviously had someone. He wouldn’t be writing to “mi amor” otherwise. But, if he had people in his life who he loved, why did no one come looking for him?

“What about the poison?”

They turned to see Rosa standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. They weren’t sure how long she’d been listening, but she obviously heard something.

“What do you mean?” Abel asked.

“What about the poison?” Rosa repeated, getting annoyed. “Don’t the legends say he was poisoned?”

“Could have been alcohol poisoning,” Abel answered.

“How would he poison his victims with one shot of tequila?”

“I don’t know. Ghost magic? He doesn’t really know himself,” Miguel said, getting irritated. “Why do you care, anyway? I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff.”

“I care about facts,” Rosa said, flopping down on the other bed. “If you’re really talking to a ghost, I want to see it.”

“Wait, can we meet him?” Abel asked. “I want to meet him too.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Miguel answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m the first person who’s gotten close enough to talk to him in a century. I’m not sure you’ll be able to.”

Rosa rolled her eyes and marched over to them. “Cut the crap. You think you’re some sort of chosen one?”

“Well, I could be,” Miguel said, flashing a cheeky grin.

Rosa flicked him on the nose. “Fine, Harry Freakin’ Potter. If we can’t see him close up, we’ll just watch from far away.  Us lowly non-chosen can still see him a distance, right?”

“True, that is true,” Abel put in. “Hey, we can show him his picture. That might jog some memories.”

“There, it’s settled,” Rosa said, matter-of-fact. “We’re going to go with you and if we’re not special enough to see him up close, we’ll just hang behind and watch you talk.”

“I don’t get a choice, do I?” Miguel huffed.

Rosa put on a mischievous smirk. “You can choose how you’re going to say ‘yes.’ Use some word-play. Get creative.”

Miguel let out his best, deepest, most beleaguered sigh. “Fine.”

[-]

“Look, he’s not used to so much attention,” Miguel said as they walked into the train station that morning. He prefaced them the night before about how to talk to the ghost. Don’t stare, don’t ask obvious questions, try not to say anything rude about him being a ghost… Mostly, he didn’t want his cousins to scare the ghost away. “He’s a little shy. I don’t want to freak him out. Just hang back for a little bit, then I’ll wave you over.”

“Miguel!”

Miguel looked up while his cousins followed his gaze. The ghost grinned widely and waved his arm in their direction.  

“Yeah, he’s a real wallflower,” Rosa quipped.

“Just wait back here,” Miguel groaned, rolling his eyes. “At least let me introduce you.”

His cousins thankfully listened as he walked up to the ghost who, again, waited by the stairs. The ghost was possibly more excited to see him today than he was the day before. “Miguel!” He called when Miguel was still a few feet away. “Miguel, ever since yesterday I’ve been having more memories about the girl.”

“That’s great,” Miguel said, setting his backpack down on the stairs.

“Yeah, I remember her dancing with me on my shoes and catching fireflies… Oh! And I used to toss her in the air which her Mama did not like at all.”

“Wow, that amazing,” Miguel answered genuinely happy for his new friend. The ghost’s smile was infectious and Miguel couldn’t help smiling himself. “So, who do you think she was?”

“I’m leaning more toward niece or sister…”

“Not daughter?”

The ghost’s smile twitched downward ever so slightly. “I really hope I didn’t forget my own daughter.”

The sound of a foghorn erupted from Miguel’s phone, startling them both. Miguel took it out of his pocket to see a text from Rosa. When did she change my ringtone? The text simply said, “Look.”

Miguel looked up to see Rosa, across the station, glaring at him and tapping her wrist where a watch would be. Oops, almost forgot. “Hey, I hope it’s okay, but I kind of brought my cousins to see you.” The ghost gave him a questioning look and Miguel realized how weird that sounded. Aw crap, he thinks they’re here to gawk at him. “I mean, I’ve been telling them about our conversations and they wanted to see if they could talk to you up close too. They’ve been pretty helpful. In fact, they helped me find this thing I wanted to show you.”

The ghost glanced over at them. “I guess that’d be okay...”

“Don’t worry, they’re pretty nice.” Miguel waved them over.

“Finally,” Rosa grumbled into Miguel’s ear as they joined him. She glanced up at the ghost and nodded. “Yup, I can still see him. Hola, I’m Rosa.”

The ghost gave her a half smile and waved. “Hola,” it said, presumably in both Miguel and Rosa’s heads.

“Oh, good,” Miguel said. This was going okay so far. “Abel, can you see him?” Miguel turned his head to his cousin who looked up, slack-jawed at the ghost. Miguel gave him a nudge and a don’t-be-rude glare. “Abel?”

His cousin shook himself out of his awed daze. “I’m Abel,” he said, extending his hand. The ghost reached out to shake, but his hand phased right through. They went through the motions anyway. Abel shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Uh, we have a famous ghost in our hometown,” he blurted out. “He plays guitar too.”

The ghost glanced between Abel and Miguel. “Uh, that’s nice...”

“Some people think he haunts a theater here in Mexico City, but I think he’s really haunting his grave because you can sometimes here guitar music coming from his mausoleum. No one’s seen him though, but people also say they can hear him singing in the theater. Can ghosts haunt two places at once?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t know.”

Miguel shot his cousin a glare, shutting Abel up. The ghosts was sad enough about being trapped here as it was. He didn’t need to hear about famous ghosts who could possibly jump from city to city as a whim. “So anyway,” He said, sitting on the stairs and opening the backpack. “Like I said, we found something we’d like to show you.” He took out the laptop as his cousins join him on the steps. “We found this webpage about famous unsolved mysteries…” The ghost nodded, but it was clear from his expression that he had no idea what a webpage was. How do I begin to explain the internet to a hundred year old ghost? Miguel just decided to keep going. It didn’t really matter in the long run. All that mattered was the picture. “Anyway, one of the mysteries is the identity of the Musician with Poison Tears.”

“So, you’re identity,” Abel clarified.

“Yeah, and there’s some pictures, but this one looks just like you.” Miguel brought up the screenshot they took of the webpage. The ghost floated behind them to have a look. His eyes started to glow. Miguel started to grin in anticipation. Yes, this was working. The ghost was getting his memories and…

“Hey, Soul Patch!”

They looked up. The same security officer from a few days ago glared down at them with her arms crossed. Oh no, what was it now? They just got here. Miguel looked over at the ghost. The glow was gone. Damn.

“Alright kid, this is the third day in a row you’ve shown up here and I never saw you buy a ticket or get on a train.”

“Umm…”

“And now you’ve got an entourage.  I want to know what’s up.”

Miguel chewed his lip. He wasn’t sure how to explain. Hi, I’m just here having a chat with an amnesiac legendary ghost. No big deal. Even just thinking it sounded like a bad lie. Before he could come up with something better, Rosa spoke up.

“He’s just here ghost hunting.” She laid on a thick layer of cynicism, as if she didn’t believe it; as if she wasn’t sitting next to the ghost at that very moment.

“He’s trying to solve the mystery of the Musician with the Poison tears,” Abel added. “He’s even talked to the ghost.”

Disbelief flashed on the woman’s face before settling into skepticism. “Is this true, kid?”

Miguel’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he glanced around at his cousins and the ghost. He hated being put on the spot like that and he was still a little miffed at being called a kid. He thought about denying it and saying his cousins were just kidding around, but he caught the ghost’s eyes and he couldn’t do it. The ghost went a hundred years without a friend. Miguel wasn’t about to pretend that he didn’t exist like everyone else.

Miguel let out a breath then looked the security officer right in the eye. “It’s true.”

“And you talked to him?”

“Yes, he’s actually here right now.” Miguel jabbed his thumb over his shoulder where the ghost was. The security officer looked at the space, but clearly saw nothing.

Rosa sighed and began, “Look. I know it sounds crazy…”

“No, I believe you,” the officer said, her face softening.

“What?”

“I’ve seen him too,” she continued, uncrossing her arms. “Everyone who’s worked here more than a few months has had at least one sighting, but no one’s ever seen him up close, let alone talked to him.”

“And you don’t mind working in a haunted place?” Abel asked.

The security officer smiled and shook her head. “Nah, he seems harmless. I’m glad someone’s getting through to him, though. Some nights, when there’s not a lot of people around, I hear his music. He always sounds so sad and lonely. How’s he been doing?”

“Good, I think,” Miguel answered. It felt weird to speak for someone who was right next to him, but it’s not like there was any other way. “He’s starting to remember stuff and I think he likes the company.”

“That’s good to hear,” The security officer answered, genuine care in her voice. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Ghostbusters. If anyone bothers you, just tell them you’re friends with Lareina, okay?”

As she walked away, Miguel looked the ghost who watched the woman with a faint smile on his lips. When he noticed Miguel watching him, he shook off the smile and asked, “So, you wanted to show me something?”

“Yeah,” Miguel opened the laptop again and pulled up the picture. “Looks just like you, when you were alive I mean.”

The ghost’s eyes flashed as he stared at the picture. Miguel waited intently for the ghost to say something, but he just kept staring. Was there a chance this wasn’t the ghost? Just some guy who looked remarkably like him? “I thought this would help, but if you’re not getting anything…”

“Héctor…” The ghost said, sounding like he just emerged from a trance.

“What?” Rosa gasped.

“It is my name…” The ghost went on. “I’m sure of it now. My name is Héctor.”

Miguel grinned, dimple on full display. His friend had a name. Héctor. Héctor the musical ghost. “Do you remember anything else?”

The ghost…no… Héctor straightened up and puffed his chest out proudly. “I was a musician,” he proclaimed. “I was a professional musician. I came here to play.”

Miguel looked at his cousins. Abel grinned just as wide as Miguel. Rosa looked astonished, but the upturned corner of her lip told him she was happy for Héctor too.

“What about mi amore?” Abel asked.

Héctor looked confused for a second then answered, “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know her. I’m sure she’s lovely, though.”

“No, he means you,” Miguel explained. “There’s a description next the picture. It says you were found with a letter addressed to-”

“Mi amore,” Héctor finished for him. He smiled even brighter as he floated high in the air. “Ay, mi amore, mi amore,” he laughed. “My wife! Beautiful, smart, fierce, passionate… I can’t believe she was mine!” The ghost floated higher as the memories filled him. He looked almost as lively as the picture. Even the color seemed to come back to his face. “I remember her singing. Oh, I wish you could hear her sing. She sang, I played, and…” He suddenly stopped, a look of realization took over his face.

“What is it?” Rosa asked.

“She… she was a mother…”

“So, the little girl…” Miguel began.

“My daughter!” Héctor grinned again and resumed his excitable floating tricks. “I was a papa! I had a family! My family! Mi familia! Maravillosa!” He floated down to his friends on the ground. “Oh, I love them, Miguel. I just barely remember them, but I feel it in my heart. I love them so much.”

“And that’s why you want to go home so bad,” Miguel suggested.

“Home?” Héctor’s face suddenly fell. He sank down into the steps, his colors faded and his tears streaming. “That’s right. Home isn’t here. I never made it home.” The tears came harder and he buried his face in his hands. “I’m a terrible father.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Abel said. He tried to put a hand on Héctor’s shoulder, but again it fell through. “You died. It’s not like you wanted to die.”

“I forgot them,” Héctor went on. “What kind of husband forgets his wife? What kind of father forgets his daughter?”

“You forgot everything, though,” Miguel reasoned. “You couldn’t even remember your own name until a few minutes ago. I’m sure you didn’t do it intentionally.”

“I never came home. I promised, but I never came home,” The ghost sobbed. “I left and I never saw them again.”

“Maybe you will?” Rosa said, scratching the back of her neck. Emotional situations always made her uncomfortable. “You know, in the afterlife?”

“Yeah, maybe once you regain all your memories, you’ll cross over,” Miguel said, putting on the same peppy voice his mother always used to encourage him. “We just have to keep trying, and then you’ll see your family again.”

“You think?” Héctor asked, lifting his head.

“Yeah, I really do.”

The ghost’s ever present tears slowed to their usual thin streams and he forced a smile. “Does your thing at least say if they knew what happened?” he asked. “Did they know I died? That I was trying to come home?”

“Uh, it doesn’t say,” Miguel answered, snapping the laptop shut. “But, they’re your family. I’m sure they came to get you.”

The ghost’s forced smile became the slightest bit real. Miguel let out an uneasy breath then looked at Rosa who glared at him. He lied. She knew he lied. She didn’t say anything, but he knew what he had to look forward to. She’d probably tell him something about how lying leads to more problems and how Héctor will be even more hurt once he finds out the truth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it too. But, he saw the fragile hope on the ghost’s face. How could the truth do him any good now? Besides, there were plenty of reasons why the family never claimed his body. Maybe the news never reached their hometown. It didn’t mean they didn’t love him. They just didn’t know.

But if they never knew he died, what did they think happened to him? Miguel shook the thought from his head.  Every scenario he could come up with was more tragic than the last. No, he couldn’t tell Héctor the truth, at least not now.