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Chapter Text

Long before they ever left their dingy hometown, Ernesto knew that Hector’s heart wasn’t in it to go on tour. He had to beg Hector to come with him. Ernesto swore up and down that the world had to hear Hector’s music. It drove him to insanity to hear the same reply of “Maybe Ernesto”, “I’ll have to see, Ernesto”, and “It depends on the timing, Ernesto. I have a family to think of”.

The fool. Didn’t he see it? That fame, fortune, and fans were waiting for them? All they had to do was play and seize the moment that was before them. The world could be theirs if they only played. Eventually, Ernesto wore him down and Hector agreed to go on tour. It was rough at first, trying to get their start, there were so many talented singers and songwriters out there. But they did well for beginners and gained a semi-steady income. It wasn’t the lifestyle that neither of them imagined. Ernesto had stars in his eyes while Hector languished at leaving his family behind.

Though Hector did not voice his concerns, Ernesto knew. He saw it in the way that Hector sang, the way he performed, even the way that he slept. Hector’s homesickness grew with every passing day as did Ernesto’s fear that his precious songwriter and partner would leave. Ernesto knew what he had to do. He could never allow Hector to return to his family. If he left, Ernesto knew that he would never stand a chance of making it to stardom on his own. And so, Ernesto did what anyone would do, he kept Hector ill.

A few drops in his evening drink did the job well. A bout of nausea and a mild fever made Hector incapable of leaving him. He was too sick to board a train but by the time the evening rolled around he would be well enough to play. It was almost like a game. Three drops kept Hector sick enough to stay in his care and play when it was time to perform, two drops gave Hector headaches and nausea, and one drop gave him a fever. Depending on how Hector sulked decided on how many drops he would receive. It went on for a little over a year. Hector’s health reflected his moods but he never caught on to the poisoning scheme by his friend and partner. Ernesto was far too clever to be caught. He always had some sort of excuse.

“Eh, you know these cheap motels, amigo. Poor ingredients, poor food. You ate something bad.”

“Sick again? Tch, I told you not to have the soup.”

“You have a weak constitution, Hector. You need to be careful with what you eat.”

However, it was after on performance that Hector had enough. Overwhelmed by his homesickness, he could no longer go on singing and dancing.

“I’m going home, Ernesto,” he said with an air of finality. “I’m going back to my family.”

Ernesto begged for Hector to stay but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Hector was going to leave whether Ernesto liked it or not. But Ernesto was never one to be so easily defeated. He decided right there as he proposed a toast in his friend’s honor that if his career was going to die due to his friend’s abandonment, then Hector had to die.  

Without the slightest twinge of guilt, he poured the entire bottle of poison into Hector’s drink.  

He watched his friend down the drink. Ernesto put an arm around Hector’s shoulders and led the way out of their miserable room. They hadn’t gone very far before Hector was doubled over in pain. He moaned and before he could call out for help, Hector was dead.

Ernesto felt nothing. It served Hector right for trying to leave.  

Chapter Text

Ernesto De La Cruz knew that he was made for something bigger when he stepped into the police office and shouted that his best friend had collapsed dead in the street. It was when concerned officers comforted the faux musician as he told the tragic tale of his friend’s death, that the thought crossed his mind that he should be an actor.

“We were talking and then,” Ernesto choked back a sob. “He called out my name and then he was gone.”

A few well-placed tears and whimpers made Ernesto the most sympathetic figure in all of Mexico. Bravely, he led the police to the lonely street which Hector’s body, still warm, laid. The local doctor, a short, elderly man smelling of gin and vermouth arrived onto the scene half an hour later. He took one look at Hector, took his pulse, and said without much ado, “This man is dead.”

Hector’s sudden demise did not warrant an autopsy. Ernesto spun a tale how Hector had been ill on and off for the past few months. He went on and on how Hector suffered from a weak constitution. Finally, he added how Hector, poor sweet sickly Hector, had complained of stomach pains an hour before he died.

To the police it was an open and shut case: Hector Rivera had died of food poisoning.

It was a widely held sentiment that it was sad to see such a young man, only 28, die in such a way. Ernesto full-heartedly agreed. It was a shame that Hector had to die in the manner that he died. It was preventable. After all, all that Hector had to do was stay with him but, no, he had wanted to go back to his family.

Now as Ernesto sat in the police station filling out the forms for Hector’s things, did he truly believe he was made to be an actor. He certainly had the good looks and the charm to be one and if he could fool the police, then why shouldn’t he take advantage of his ability? He would not become like Hector who saw fit to throw away his one in a million chance to make something out of himself. No, he would become a somebody. As for Hector, he could feed the worms.

Distracted by thoughts of stardom, Ernesto barely noticed the uniformed officer take a seat across from him.

“Did he have a family?”

Ernesto glanced up. “Sorry, what?”

“A family? He did have one?”

Ernesto thought back to the family that Hector would rarely shut up about. His darling Coco and his beautiful wife, Imelda. “No. No, he did not. Hector did not have a family. He was on his own.”

“Ahh, so you will be taking care of Rivera’s funeral arrangements?”

“Oh, yes the funeral. I’m afraid that my trade has not provided a stable source of income. I cannot pay for his funeral.”

The officer understood and nodded. “I see. Do not worry, the church has a fund for the destitute. They will take care of him. All the church asks is that you bring clothes for him to be buried in.”

Ernesto did bring clothes for Hector to wear. The clothes were not of Hector’s favorite red mariachi uniform or of the outfit he wore when he met Imelda. Hector was given an old purple coat with a stained dress shirt and dirty striped pants. It was the mariachi uniform for when they played small crowds.

In less than a day, Hector was buried in a mass grave. Wearing shabby second-rate mariachi clothes, in a cheap coffin, he rotted alongside a dozen other nameless souls.

Chapter Text

From the moment Hector opened his eyes, he knew that something was horribly wrong.

Maybe it was the blinding white lights above him, the way his head pounded, or the fact that he felt lighter but he knew something was wrong.

“Ay, Ernesto,” Hector groaned, putting a hand on his aching head. “What did we drim-“ The second bone touched bone, Hector shouted and screamed. He looked at his hand was the start of a long and unending nightmare. Everywhere he looked there were scores of skeletons.

“I’m dreaming!” he panicked. “I have to be dreaming!” Hector fled from the sterile hospital-like room. No matter where he ran, there were always skeletons. It wasn’t until he bumped into one and his body shattered that he was forced to stop. His head rolled away from the rest of his body. A skeleton, dressed as an officer, picked up his skull. Hector didn’t know what was worse: The strange sensation of being a skull, feeling disconnected from his body but still knowing where everything was, or the fact that the skeletal officer was holding his head.  

“Let me go! Please, please let me go!” he cried out. “Help!”

“Sir,” responded the officer. “Please calm yourself. Everything will be –“

“CALM MYSELF? I’M A HEAD!

“Do you want to disturb everyone or do you want answers?” scolded the officer. She showed him the other skeletons lying in beds. They were sleeping peacefully.

Hector went quiet for a minute and then softly he answered, “Answers. I want answers. Where am I?”

“The Land of the Dead.”

It didn’t bring him any comfort to know that. “Why am I here?”

The officer, a kind woman, responded, “You died.” She lifted his head to watch his body put itself back together. “I’m very sorry. It’s never easy and death can be disorienting but you’ll get used to it. Everyone does with time.” The officer, Officer Guzman was on her nametag, placed his skull back on his body.

“I don’t understand,” Hector said, adjusting his head. “I was sick or anything! I was talking to my friend and then…” Then he couldn’t remember. His mind was a jumbled mess.

“Then you died. People who die suddenly or violently, their memories are hazy. Try to relax, sir.”

“But my family! Imelda and Coco! They need me!”

Officer Guzman saw him getting worked up again and sat him down on an empty bed. “I know what you’re going through. Everyone’s been where you’ve been. We’ve all left family behind but soon you’ll be able to see them again.”

Hector stared at her in horror. Officer Guzman laughed nervously, “Not like that I mean! It’s nearly Day of the Dead. Look, you loved your family, right?”

“Yes,” Hector nodded. “With all my heart.”

“And your family loves you, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then you can crossover and see them in the Land of the Living. All you have to do is wait a month.”

The next month was the longest wait Hector had ever experienced. Time drudged on. His mind was consumed by thoughts of Imelda and Coco. He could see the terrible scene play out constantly. Coco waiting for his next letter that never would come, Imelda, receiving word that he had died…oh dear god, the funeral. Imelda would have to plan his funeral and Coco would watch her Papa be put into the ground.

The thought made his heart – Hector frowned. He didn’t have a heart anymore. He lacked a heart, flesh, and his nose (he missed his nose!). He wasn’t alive anymore, he was a skeleton. He was dead and his family was alive. But dead or not, he would still see them. He wouldn’t let something like death stop him from seeing his Imelda and Coco. There wasn’t a force on earth that would keep him away! Except for –

“I’m sorry, sir,” an officer, a short and stout man, said. “But you cannot cross over. Your photo isn’t on anyone’s ofrenda.”

“There must be a mistake. My wife, Imelda, would honor me. She wouldn’t deprive me of seeing our daughter! Imelda loves me.”

The officer looked at Hector’s clothes and skeptically nodded. “I’m sure she does.”

“We’re poor!” Hector said defensively. “And I died suddenly and away from home! She didn’t…she didn’t have a chance to…Imelda loves me.”

“Sir, please, step aside. You’re holding up the line. Other people want to see their families.”

“I want to see my family!” Hector demanded. “Please, I have to see them! I need to know that they are okay!”

The officer motioned for security but Hector was undeterred. He ran for the Marigold Bridge. He made a leap for the petal but sunk the minute he set foot on them.

“No!” Hector refused to give up. If he couldn’t walk then he would swim to his family. Hector sunk further down until only his straw hat could be seen. Two officers pulled him out and dragged him away. For jumping the line, causing a disturbance, and attempting to flee into the Land of the Living, Hector was put into a cell for twenty-four hours. It would be the first of many times Hector would be thrown in a jail cell. It also marked the start of a long and lonely afterlife. 

Chapter Text

“Remember me, though I have to say goodbye…remember me, don’t let it make you cry,” Ernesto sang softly as he strummed his guitar.

The song that Hector had created was beautiful. It was the kind of song that was created by a genius who spoke from his soul. It was also the kind of song that would never sell as it was. “Remember Me” was a child’s lullaby. It was meant to be sung tenderly and softly. It lacked that spark that would set hearts on fire. That failing was on Hector’s part. Ah, but Ernesto knew just what to do to fix it. Where Hector lacked vision, Ernesto more than made up for it with his bombastic attitude.

A flourish of his guitar marked the beginning of a new song. “REMEMBER ME!” Ernesto played fast and sang loudly. “THOUGH I HAVE TO SAY GOODBYE! REMEMBER ME! DON’T LET IT MAKE YOU CRY!”

He finished Hector’s – no, his song with a proud mariachi shout. This was his song now. Hector could keep his cheesy lullaby. Ernesto would have his passionate love song.

And in a few months, “Remember Me” did become a fiery love song. It rocketed Ernesto to the top of the charts. People came from miles around to hear his ballad. Women swooned when they heard his romantic tune. Men begged to know the secret on how Ernesto had written the quintessential love song. Ernesto brushed them all away. He claimed that the secret of “Remember Me” was his and his alone. He could never give away the secret of his most romantic song – at least, not without some compensation. That was how Ernesto was launched into the film industry with his first movie, “El Corazon Ardiente” where “Remember Me” was featured prominently. A month before the movie hit theaters, Ernesto sat down with interviewers and was asked the question that had dogged his career, “What was your inspiration for “Remember Me”?”

Ernesto chuckled and nodded. “Ah, si, “Remember Me”, it was a moment of pure inspiration.”

“But what was your inspiration, senor? Who was the woman who captured your heart?”

One could hardly call Hector a woman but he had captured his heart with the beautiful music he wrote. Did he miss his precious songwriter? Of course. Did he have regrets that Hector was no longer with him? Yes, he did. It was hard to create music that didn’t have Hector’s touch. If only Hector hadn’t gotten himself killed then things would have been better.

“A gentleman does not kiss and tell,” Ernesto replied, oozing charm. “It would be rude.”

“But a name? What is her name?”

“Her name has been lost to the ages, I’m afraid,” he answered with a sigh. It was enough to satisfy the media. The world hailed him as a genius and “El Corazon Ardiente” became a box office smash. The offers flooded in like a raging tide. The people of Mexico wanted more of him. They wanted more singing, more movies, and more songs. It was more, more, more and Ernesto was more than happy to cater to their needs.

Ernesto De La Cruz became a household name while in Santa Cecilia, Hector Rivera became a cursed one. Imelda never knew what became of her husband but she knew enough that music and his ambition had taken him away from her and Coco. Her daughter spent her afternoons crying when she didn’t get a letter from her Papa. Seeing her daughter distressed spurned Imelda to action.

If Hector didn’t want them then she didn’t want him. Husband or not, Hector Rivera was now dead to her. Imelda swore off singing. She dumped every musical instrument she had in the household and locked them away.

“To hell with Hector!” she proudly declared as she erased his presence from their – No. Her home. It was her home now and Coco was her daughter. Hector didn’t have a place in their lives anymore. Imelda donated his clothes to the needy, she took down every piece of music he had ever written, and just when she thought she was done, Imelda stumbled upon the last family photo they had ever taken. It was the day before Hector had set out on tour. Fighting back her tears, Imelda ripped her husband’s face out of the photo.

She wouldn’t waste any more time on him. She had a daughter to take care of now. Coco needed her.

Chapter Text

No one ever thinks that they’re going to die suddenly. Certainly not people like Ernesto De La Cruz whose fame was as massive as his chin. He was at the top of his career, singing at one of the most exclusive black-tie events of the year. He was belting out the song that made him famous and he never saw the bell hit him. What he did know in those few seconds as he died was: Pain, agony, and then nothing.

Ernesto De La Cruz woke up dead.

He didn’t panic like Hector had upon discovering that his life had come to an untimely end. How could he? When he had thousands of his fans swarming to get into his room to get a chance to see him? Any sadness Ernesto had was snuffed out as the praise from his adoring public was poured upon him.

“WE LOVE YOU!” They shouted.

“IT’S ERNESTO DE LA CRUZ!” They cried.

The Land of the Dead was in a tizzy. They were delighted to have Ernesto join the prestigious ranks of dead Hispanic celebrities. He spent his first-day signing photos and autographs, attending parties, and giving interviews on his own death. Leaving Frida Khalo’s place (what an eccentric woman!) Ernesto was mobbed by his loving fans. His security escorted him to his limousine. Waving and blowing kisses to his public, Ernesto disappeared into his car. He never noticed a pathetic skeleton wearing a straw hat had slipped inside his limo.

“Who are you?” Ernesto demanded.

“Amigo, don’t you recognize me?”

Ernesto squinted and tilted his head. “No…should I?” It was then that Ernesto saw that single gold tooth and it all came back to him. “Hector?”

“Amigo!” The scruffy skeleton embraced him. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again!” Hector said in earnest. “But not so soon! I’m sorry that you died.”

“Ay,…it was, um, unexpected to say the least. How…” he looked up and down Hector’s skeletal form. “How have you been, amigo?”

“Not well,” answered Hector. He took off his hat and said, “I’ve down here for twenty years, Ernesto and I haven’t been able to see my family.”

“Your family? Imelda and your daughter?”

“Si! My little girl, Imelda…they haven’t…I haven’t been able to cross over. No one put up my photo and I checked with the Department of Family Reunions and I’m,” Hector blinked back his tears. “I’m not buried in Santa Cecilia. I’m not where I should be. I don’t know what happened. Ernesto, please, tell me what happened that night.”

“You don’t remember?”

Hector shook his head. “I remember our toast, walking down the street, and my stomach hurt. I…I died.”

The limo came to a stop and

“You honestly don’t remember?” Ernesto said with a chuckle as he exited the car. “Truly?”

“N-No. What happened?” Hector followed him like a lost puppy.

In front of the hundreds of people who came to see Ernesto’s new living space in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto said loudly for everyone to hear. “Hector, my friend, you died choking on a chorizo.”

“What?” Hector gasped as the crowd around them giggled. In the Land of the Dead, there was a level of respectability on how one died. People like Ernesto De La Cruz who died tragically were held in the highest esteem. People like Hector who died choking on a sausage were made a mockery of. There could be dignity in death but biting off more than you could chew would earn you a one-way ticket to unending ridicule. And that’s how it began. Publicized by Ernesto De La Cruz, word soon spread that the shambling mess known as Hector Rivera had died choking on chorizo.

It wasn’t enough to be murdered but even in death, Hector’s reputation died a second time.

Chapter Text

There were two names that the people of Santa Cecilia knew well. The first was Ernesto De La Cruz and the second was Imelda Rivera. Ernesto who became the shining jewel of the town brought joy while Imelda Rivera brought pride. Her story was nothing as glamorous as Ernesto’s. Far from it, the woman who would become THE Imelda Rivera started out in life as an orphan. She had been abandoned and left on the doorstep of the church. Imelda would never know who her parents were nor did she care to know. When she turned five, she declared proudly on Mariachi Square that she would be her own person and that she would never let anyone abandon her.

If her parents didn’t want her then that was fine by her. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need anyone! She would make her own way in life and by the time she was six, she had. Imelda was gifted with a beautiful voice. She would sing in Mariachi Square. First, it was simply hymns but as she grew older, she wrote her own music and sang her own songs. By the time she was twenty-one, Imelda was a fixture in Mariachi Square and people happily gave her money to sing the songs that they loved.

Imelda was comfortable being a one-woman act. It was better this way. She didn’t have to worry about relying on anyone. She could count on herself. Of course, this didn’t stop men from attempting to come to her rescue. They saw a vulnerable woman who needed someone to protect her - a woman who sang such sweet love songs that it was an obvious plea for some dashing man to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset with her. Almost every night, there was some musician who had jumped the wall of her courtyard and pranced around her garden seeking to win her heart with sickeningly sweet love songs. They thought that they could win her over but Imelda never appeared before them to listen to their music. She would have her window open and would throw the heaviest rocks she kept by her bedside at the pathetic musicians.

Imelda never missed.

Then one summer’s night, she heard the sounds of someone jumping over her courtyard wall. She sighed and got out the rocks that she would throw at the latest idiot with a guitar. A grito disturbed the peace of the night and caught Imelda off guard.

“What color is the sky? Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor? You tell me that it’s red, ay mi amor, ay, mi amor. Where should I put my shoes? Ay, mi amor, ay mi amor. You say, “Put them on your head!” Ay, mi amor, ay mi amor!”

Imelda went to the window but never put down her rock. She stepped onto her balcony and there she saw him. She knew him on sight. His name was Hector Rivera. He was lanky and tall. His ears were big and so was his nose. He was nothing like the handsome Ernesto who sang in Mariachi Square but there was something about him that Imelda couldn’t help but find charming. Hector looked up. He was smiling but stopped playing suddenly when he saw that Imelda had actually stepped out onto her balcony.

Imelda frowned. “Why did you stop singing?”

Hector nervously cleared his throat. “Ay, senorita, the rock, eh, in your hand.” The fear he felt was real. “You’re not going to hit me with it, are you?”

“Oh!” she dropped the rock. “No. I will not,” she smiled sweetly.

Hector Rivera was the only man who ever sang in Imelda’s courtyard and didn’t leave with a concussion.

From that moment on, Hector and Imelda were an inseparable pair. They sang together, they danced together and didn’t take shit from anyone. One day, a fellow musician had made a vulgar proposition to Imelda. Hector had been within earshot. He ran up towards the man and punched him as hard as he could. A fight ensued and when the dust had settled the other man was out cold and Hector was missing a tooth. Imelda dragged Hector to the dentist to get it replaced.

“Ay! What were you thinking?” she snapped at him. “Getting into a fight like that! You could have been hurt!”

“I am hurt!” mumbled Hector through a cloth to keep the blood at bay.

“You could have been hurt worse!”

“He said he wanted to fuc –“

“I know what he said, Hector,” scolded Imelda. “I’m not deaf.”

“I’m sorry but when those men say that shit, it’s –“

“I know,” she kissed him softly. “Those cabrón piss me off too. It’s not the first time someone has said that to me. I’m past the point where it hurts me.” She sighed and brushed some of the dust off Hector’s suit. “I don’t want a knight in shining armor to defend me, amor. I want a partner who can support me.”

Hector pouted. “Does this mean you don’t want to marry me?” he asked, holding a ring up.

Imelda screamed and hugged Hector. “OF COURSE, I’LL MARRY YOU!”

That day, Hector got his gold tooth and Imelda got a husband. The following year was pure wedded bliss for Hector and Imelda. And just when they thought things couldn’t get any better they had Socorro.

“Imelda!” Hector whispered excitedly as their baby girl slept. “We’re a Mama and Papa!”

“Si!” she lavished him with kisses. “Our Coco…she’s perfect.”

“Just wait until she gets older! You, Coco, and me will tour the country singing together!”

Imelda shook her head. “Hector, we can’t. Travel Mexico? With a baby? It’s not, we-we can’t. Coco needs a home, not the open road.”

“I know but Ernesto says –“

She scoffed. “That Ernesto…”

“What? Don’t you like him?”

“I don’t like the way he looks you, amor,” she said crossing her arms.

Hector furrowed his brow. “How does he look at me?”

Imelda stared at her husband. “Like you are a piece of meat. I know what he says about you and your music. You are talented, you are gifted, and your music is beautiful but I don’t want to lose you over it. Touring the country means you’ll be gone. I want Coco to have a father and to have the love of my life with me every night.”

“But Imelda –“

One glance and she silenced him. “I cannot go on tour. I will not uproot Coco’s life for Ernesto’s dream.”

Hector sighed and nodded.

“However,” she started, “If you want to go on tour with Ernesto then do it. Perform for the world but promise me this, Hector, that you will come home.”

“I promise!” he said instantly.

She shook her head. “No Hector, I need to know that you will come home to me, to Coco. I don’t want her growing up with a father who is always on the road.”

As fate would have it, Coco wouldn’t grow up with a father on the road. She would grow up without a father period. After the first month that Hector’s letters stopped coming, Imelda worried. She consoled herself that wherever her husband was, that he was busy trying to provide for her and their daughter. After the second month without any contact, Imelda hardly slept. Once the third month passed, Imelda was a mess. The terrible feeling of being unwanted reared its ugly head in her heart. No matter how much she tried to push it down and suppress it, the fear was taking hold. Day after day, she worried and wondered when Hector would come home. One day, Imelda went to the market and on the radio, she heard a familiar tune.

“-The way you keep me guessing, I’m nodding and I’m yesing. I’ll count it as a blessing that I’m only un poco loco!”

It was their song. It was her song! Hector wrote it for her and it was being sung by Ernesto De La Cruz. Imelda had never put pen to paper so fast before.  

Where’s Hector, she wrote.

He left, Ernesto wrote back, I haven’t seen him in months.

Did he say where he was going, was her frantic reply.

No, was Ernesto’s response. We went to a bar and he left before me. When I came back to the hotel room, he was gone. He left his songbook and guitar behind. Did he say anything to you? About possibly coming home?

No, she wrote back. Was he coming home?

He didn’t say anything to me about returning to Santa Cecilia, Ernesto wrote back. I saw him talking to a woman in the bar if that helps any. They looked comfortable together.

Imelda’s heart was broken.

Can I keep his guitar, asked Ernesto in his final letter to her, or do you want it?

Keep the damn thing, was Imelda’s furious reply. I never want to see it again!

To Hell with Hector became her motto. Imelda disowned him. She got rid of his things, of his music, and of the life they had built together. She didn’t waste tears on him. Imelda pulled herself up by the bootstraps and made something of herself. She didn’t need Hector! She didn’t need anyone! She had Coco and that was it. From nothing, Imelda Rivera built an empire. She poured her heart and soul into her providing a future for Coco.

The hours were long and the labor was tedious but as long it kept a roof over her daughter’s head and food on their table then she didn’t give a damn. She made something of herself. Imelda taught Coco the trade and then her son-in-law and then the rest of the family was brought in. Imelda could have stopped working and retired. The family had more than enough workers. She could have slowed down and taken a break but THE Imelda Rivera refused. She built her company with her own two hands. She vowed that she wouldn’t stop working until the day she died.

And she did.

Imelda Rivera passed away at her workbench from a heart attack. The town of Santa Cecilia mourned the loss of one of its strongest residents but took comfort that a woman like Imelda was now in the Land of the Dead where she could rest. When Imelda woke in the waiting room of the newly deceased, she had only one regret: That she had left Coco.

“Oh, my baby girl…” She comforted herself that Coco’s husband was a good man and that she had her family to support her now. Coco wasn’t her little girl anymore. She was married and had children of her own who loved her. Imelda had given her daughter the life she hope that she might have. A woman dressed in a blue uniform walked over to her bed.

“Mrs. Rivera?” Officer Guzman asked. “We’ve found your family.”

“My family?” The only family she had was still alive. She had no one else.

“Si!” Officer Guzman smiled. “Do you want to see –“

Before Guzman could finish her sentence, the doors were thrown open with a bang. A gangly skeleton ran past the other beds and went straight to Imelda.

“MI AMOR!” Hector cried out. “I have missed you so much!”

To hear his voice after so long was a shock. To have him caressing and kissing her like they were newlyweds brought her pain. But to have him declare his undying love to her fueled the inner rage Imelda’s heartache kept alive for decades.

He made Coco grow up without a father. He forced them to struggle to survive. He abandoned her, the love of his life, for some floozy that he met in a bar!

“YOU BASTARD!” she took off her shoe and faster than anyone could react, she slapped Hector so hard that his head was knocked off. His skull sailed through the air and landed a football field away from his body. “I NEVER WANT TO SEE THAT MAN AGAIN!”

“But he’s your husband!” cowered Officer Guzman behind her clipboard.

“HE’S NO HUSBAND OF MINE! HE HAS BROUGHT ME NOTHING BUT SUFFERING! TO HELL WITH HECTOR!”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing that Hector knew about Imelda, it was that she loved music. It was what brought them together, what created so many happy memories, and how they made their living. His Imelda was a singer and if there was any way that he could mend the years of his absence then it was through song. Only a song had the power to change a heart. It was a mistake to underestimate the power of music.

Just like the first time he ever played for her, he hopped over the courtyard wall of her new home in the Land of Dead. Hector looked up at the balcony of Imelda’s bedroom. Her window was open and he could see her silhouette. He took in a deep breath. If he was going to win her over, he only had one shot.

“A feeling so close you could reach out and touch it. I never knew I could want something so much but it’s-“

A rock whizzed past his head. It missed him by half an inch.

“That was a warning shot, Hector,” said Imelda, standing on her balcony. She was holding another rock. “I won’t miss.”

He knew that she wouldn’t miss. Her aim was perfect.

“Imelda!” he smiled but his nerves betrayed him. “I wanted to see you.”

“So you broke into my home and disturbed my sleep with your yowling?” she seethed. Her words were as sharp as a knife and she used her weapon well.

“I, well, um,” he sighed, taking another breath. “Imelda, I’m sorry. I never meant to –“

“To what Hector?” she snapped. “To leave Coco and me? To leave me to raise a child by myself? To know that my husband was NEVER going to come home? That my love meant nothing? Please, Hector which one did you never mean to do?”

“I’m sorry! I love you, Im-“

She had enough of him and threw the rock. It struck him and fractured his foot.

“GET OUT OF MY HOME! YOU’RE NOT WELCOMED HERE!”

Hector escaped while he still could. Over the wall, he jumped and when he landed, the worst pain he had felt since he died traveled through his foot. Hector limped away from Imelda’s home. To take the pain off his mind, he strummed the guitar. Whenever he was feeling down, he played his guitar. It brought comfort and joy to him. He didn’t play any song that he knew. The simple motion of the strings vibrating against his fingers as enough to calm him. As he wandered the streets of the Land of Dead, he heard music being played. He recognized it instantly, both the music and the singer.

“REMEMBER ME! THOUGH I HAVE TO SAY GOODBYE! REMEMBER ME! DON’T LET IT MAKE YOU CRY!”

A bastardized version of Coco’s song was being played throughout the Land of the Dead to where everyone could hear it.

Ernesto was playing HIS songs.

Ernesto was playing HIS daughter’s lullaby.

Ernesto hadn’t given him credit.

Why hadn’t he? They were friends. They were best friends! Ernesto was his best man at his wedding! They went on tour together, they played together, and when he couldn’t remember how he died, Ernesto was kind enough to fill him in on his cause of death even if it was embarrassing. Now, Ernesto was basking in the warmth of his fans who loved him both in life and in death. If he could have just a smidge of the credit, just enough to where someone would put up his photo on an ofrenda, any ofrenda, he could still see Coco again. But Ernesto hadn’t.

No one remembered him.

Hector scowled at the guitar in his hands. What good had music ever done for him? Imelda couldn’t stand to hear him play and Ernesto butchered his songs. Music was nothing but trouble. For all his talent, music only damned him to a life of being forgotten. Hector held the guitar high and smashed it into the ground. Music wasn’t worth anything to him, not when it cost him the love of his life and the chance to see his daughter.

Hector vowed to never play again.

Chapter Text

Living in the Land of the Dead came with certain perks. If you were remembered you could cross over the Marigold Bridge, see your family and friends, celebrate the growth of the people that you loved, and even take offerings back. When you were remembered, you knew that you were loved. But for people like Hector, whose photo was never placed on anyone’s ofrenda, lived in limbo where love was a foreign word.

He may have never had the chance to go over and see their daughter like Imelda but he was determined to see Coco even if it killed him. Thus began the yearly tradition of Hector attempting to cross over the Marigold Bridge. It started small with pleading and bribery. There had to be someone in the Land of the Dead who had a way out but there was. Everyone who heard his desperate story told him the same thing, “Your photo has to be on someone’s ofrenda. Your story has to be passed down. No story, no photo, no crossing over.”

Hector never gave up. If he couldn’t cross over the bridge the normal way then he was going to have to be unconventional. Hector tried air-gliding over, catapulting over, etc. His attempts became more convoluted as time went on. The police knew who he was on sight. It got to the point where Hector couldn’t even get near the Marigold Bridge without being preemptively arrested. Hector never meant any harm. He wasn’t a menace but he was a nuisance. For the department who had their hands full on the Day of the Dead, Hector’s antics were an unwelcome intrusion.

It was after another escape attempt that Hector found himself in police custody again. Trapped in special handcuffs that made it impossible to leave your limbs behind, the police dragged Hector back to the slums where he lived for the past couple of decades. Upon arriving in the lower tier of the officers released Hector but not before giving him a small beating. They sent pieces of Hector everywhere. His head landed near one of the bonfires while the rest of his body was dumped in the water. The other residents shook their heads and helped Hector gather his body.  

“How many times are we gonna have to do this, Rivera?” one of them asked as they placed his torso back with his lower body.

“As many times as it takes,” Hector replied, putting his arm back into its socket. “I’m going to see my little girl.”

Chicharron shook his head from the porch of his home. He walked over to Hector and said, “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep this shit up.”

“It’s the only chance I’ve got of seeing Coco.”

“Cuz, let me let you in on a little piece of advice: Give up. You’re not gonna-“

A scream echoed through the slums. Hector pulled himself together and with Chicharron, ran to the house where the scream came from. On the floor was a man. His wife was holding his hand as sparks of gold shuddered through his skeletal form.

“What’s happening?” she asked fearfully.

Hector and Chicharron realized that that the man and his wife were new. They had only been around the slums for a week, maybe two at most. Hector knelt down beside the bereaved woman and said, “He’s being forgotten.”

Another flash of gold and the man groaned. His wife held onto him. “How do you make it stop?” she cried.

“Yo-You can’t stop it,” Hector informed her as gently as he could, “He’s -“

The woman groaned. A spark of gold covered her bones. She was being forgotten as well. “Please! I can’t lose him. I love him! We’re supposed to have a life together we can’t-“ Gold light swirled about the couple and then they were gone. Not a single trace of the young couple was left. It was like they never existed.

“That’s what’s gonna happen to us, Hector. That’s our future,” Chicharron sighed, making the sign of the cross against his chest. “I’m not sayin’ this to be a jerk but that’s all that’s waiting out there for us. Why spend your time pissing the police off when you should be enjoying what time you’ve got left?”

Hector didn't say a word. His gaze was locked on where the couple had been only seconds before. Chicharron was right. The Final Death was all that was out there for people like him. Hector looked at his hands. His bones were dirty, some were broken, and nothing like the beautiful polished white bones that people like Imelda and Ernesto had. They were loved after death by people who cared for them. Hector wondered when he would fade away into nothing.

Chapter Text

Another Day of the Dead, another night spent in a jail cell. Hector sighed as he marked the wooden bench the number of times he’d been stuck in the cell. It didn’t bother him anymore. Quite the opposite actually, it gave him time to think of his next attempt to cross the Marigold Bridge. There just had to be a way across if he didn’t have a photo. There must have been someone like him, stuck in the same predicament like he was that made it across. He couldn’t have been the only person in the Land of the Dead who wanted to cross over. Surely, there had to be contingencies for people like him?

He guessed not. His attempts to cross over had gained him a kind of notoriety in the Land of the Dead. People saw him and knew that he would try some stunt to cross over. The police by this point had actually started taking bets on when he would come to his sense and give. Hector hated to disappoint them but he was never going to stop. He might not have been able to cross over but he was still here. Someone up there remembered him and Hector was more than willing to bet that it was his baby girl.

His baby girl…she wouldn’t be so little anymore. She would be an old woman by now. Hector pulled his legs up against his chest and rested his head against his knees. He wondered about Coco often. He thought about the life she must have had, the people she met…Hector thought about Coco getting married and was set upon by his own guilt at missing his own daughter’s wedding day. He bet that she was as beautiful as Imelda was when they got married.

Another pang of guilt came from thinking of his now estranged wife. It seemed that in life and in death, Imelda swore off music claiming that it ruined her marriage, her family, and her life. He sometimes saw her on the streets. She was surrounded by people that he didn’t know. He guessed that they were new members of the Rivera family tree. Hector never spoke to Imelda when he saw her by chance. He knew better. She might not have carried rocks with her but he’d seen her threaten people with her boots. She would take his head off again. But from what Hector could see, Imelda was happy and that’s what really mattered. She was beloved and revered as the matriarch of the Rivera family.

Hector smiled softly. Imelda never changed her name. She was a Rivera. She raised their daughter as Coco Rivera. Imelda could have gone by her maiden name, Reyes, but she didn’t. It was a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe, even if they were estranged, that she didn’t hate him. If Imelda still went by his last name, built a business with his name, and raised Coco with his last name, then there was still a chance. There was still hope. He was still here.

By all rights, he should have shuffled off the mortal coil decades ago but he hadn’t. Despite the years and Coco’s age, she was four when he left, she remembered him. She still carried his memory on, photo or no photo. Hector held onto his hope. It was all he had left. He would see Coco again. Even if they didn’t get to spend the afterlife together, he would see her again in the Land of the Living. He would give her the biggest hug and make sure that she knew that her Papa loved her more than anything in the world.

As long as Coco never gave up on him, he would never stop trying to see her.

Chapter Text

Hector didn’t think that he would get into Ernesto’s home. He didn’t think that he wouldn’t get away with his Frida disguise. He didn’t think that Ernesto would deny about stealing his songs to his face. There were a million things that never crossed Hector’s mind but discovering that Ernesto, his best friend, had murdered him in cold blood was at the top of the list.

“You…poisoned…me,” his voice quivered. Sadness turned to anger. “I JUST WANTED TO GO HOME!”

Ernesto called for security. Hector was dragged away. He screamed and raged as Ernesto’s goons took him away. Hector continued to fight. He hadn’t given up for decades, he wasn’t going to give up now. Hector kicked and bit at the men who held him captive. He managed to hurt them and pride swelled in his chest that if he was able to hurt them a little more, he might be able to escape. The men, however, were bigger and stronger and Hector’s attempts at injury were nothing more than a nuisance. Still, a nuisance was a nuisance and in retaliation, one of the men held Hector down while another threw a punch.

Hector heard a crack. His skull, already battered, had a brand new crack. Hector saw stars and before he knew what was happening, he felt the horrible sensation of falling. By the time Hector came to his senses, he found himself falling head first into a sinkhole. Disoriented, Hector couldn’t tell which way was up. He let his body go. Bits of him bobbed up and down in the crystal clear water. Hector pulled himself together and swam for the rocky shore.

The land was a cold barren place. It evoked the sense of hopelessness but Hector, ever enduring Hector, was already looking for a way to escape. There wasn’t much time left before sunrise. He had an hour or two at most. If he really booked it, he could-

His photo.

Ernesto had his photo. No photo, no crossing. No crossing meant he didn’t get to see Coco. Hector refused to believe it. He was going to see his daughter. He’d come so close to getting to see her, he couldn’t give up now.  

“Can anyone hear me?” Hector shouted. “Help me! Please! I have to see my little girl! PLEASE! I-”

A disturbing sensation, hot and cold, rattled his bones. Hector thought he saw the slightest trace of gold.

“No…no, no, no, no, no…” he shook his head vehemently. “Don’t give up on me, Coco. Please. I-I’ll be there. I’ll see you. Please, don’t forget about me.”

Hector looked around the sinkhole where he was now trapped. There had to be a way out. But the walls were smooth like glass. It was impossible to climb up. There was nothing for him to grab onto, to climb up, or to drag upwards. Hector was stuck in the sinkhole with not a single way of escape. And yet, despite it all, Hector still tried to climb, tried to grab onto a stalactite, and dragging a piece of broken rock to nearest piece of the sinkhole in hopes of getting out.  

As Hector fought for freedom, in the back of his mind, a thought was steadily brewing. The single person he had on his mind was Ernesto. Everything, the entire reason he couldn’t see Coco for years, was because of him. Looking back on it now, it should have been obvious that he died under suspicious circumstances. The drink they had shared, it had tasted bitter. But what did he know? For a year he ate poor food with poor ingredients and he always seemed to be sick and – Hector stopped. He always got sick but Ernesto was fine. Ernesto never got sick.

“THAT SON OF A BITCH!”

Hector worked harder now to escape but that damn hot and cold sensation rattled him. It stopped dead in his tracks and left him feeling almost breathless. Hector could feel it. He was being forgotten. Little by little he could feel himself becoming less, becoming nothing more than the faint memories of a woman who never knew why her Papa never came home. The sensation took hold of him again. Hector was forced to rest. Even if he could escape, Ernesto had his photo and Coco was forgetting him. He was a dead man.

Hector fell into despair.

Chapter Text

Dying hurt.

If anyone could speak from experience about it, it would be Hector. The first and final year on tour with Ernesto was a sample of what death was like. Constantly sick, exhausted, and in pain, Hector thought he knew quite well what it was like to die. He remembered lying in an uncomfortable bed, grasping his stomach in pain and wondering when the agony would end. He recalled Ernesto shaking his head at his supposedly bad health.

“You have a weak constitution, Hector. You need to be careful with what you eat,” Ernesto said, putting a glass of water and some soup by the nightstand. “Here, try this.”

The mere smell of the soup was enough to send Hector over the side of the bed to vomit. His stomach was never at ease. He couldn’t keep anything down. Ernesto pulled his distressed songwriter back into the bed.

“It pains me to see you this way, Hector,” said Ernesto as he pulled the sheets over Hector’s quivering form. “Truly it does.”

“T-Thank you, amigo.” Hector shook uncontrollably. He tried to get comfortable but the bed might as well have been made from rocks. His body ached for comfort. His body was in a state of chaos and the tiniest bit of relief Hector could find was thinking of his family. He thought of Imelda singing and her graceful dancing as she twirled around him. Hector thought of his little girl, his Coco, who liked to sit on his lap as he played. Hector sniffled and wondered if it was possible for homesickness to manifest into real illness.

“I think I made a mistake, Ernesto,” Hector sighed. “I never should have left Santa Cecilia.”

Ernesto sat down on the bed and put a hand to Hector’s forehead. “I think your fever is clouding your mind.”

Hector weakly pushed Ernesto’s hand away. “I miss Imelda and Coco.”

“They’re fine without you,” Ernesto assured him. “Imelda is a strong woman. She can take care of herself.”

“But Coco,” Hector moaned in pain. “My little girl…”

“She’s a child. Think of it, my friend. How many early memories does a child remember? Your absence will fade from her mind. She’ll have her Papa soon.”

Hector would never return home. A week later as Ernesto walked him to the train, an incredible pain blossomed in Hector’s stomach. It was fast and devastating. At once, it crippled him. Hector’s vision blurred and his breath became ragged. Time seemed to come to a stop as pain consumed him. Hector collapsed. His final fleeting thoughts were of the family that he left behind. Dying hurt but dying for a second time, experiencing the Final Death, was so much worse.

The pain that he felt this time as his life was being snuffed out wasn’t the tortuous prolonged pain of his body being pumped with poison but rather of loss of the family that he was reunited with. After all these years, Imelda knew that he had wanted to come home and that little boy who made him so proud at the contest was his great-great-grandson. Not Ernesto’s but his! He was proud. Miguel had a bright future ahead of him. Gold light consumed Hector’s body. His bones rattled and Hector could feel the Final Death wrapping itself around him. An invisible menace, the Final Death snaked its way through his ribs, between the cracks and breaks in his bones, and in and out of his skull.

“Papa Hector!” Miguel shouted. “The photo! I tried –“

His photo was lost to the water below. There was no time to retrieve his photo and to return Miguel back to the Land of the Living. With his and Imelda’s blessing, they sent Miguel, still protesting and pleading, back home where he belonged. Miguel would do well as a musician, Hector was sure of it. He had the skill and the talent, and he knew that his family came first. As another shudder of gold shook his weak frame, Hector wished he never left Santa Cecilia. He wished that he stayed with his family.

Hector looked up at Imelda. Tears were in her eyes. He hated to see her sad. His heart ached for her. There were a million things that he wanted to say to her but was too weak to do. He wanted her to know that he loved her and that he loved Coco and that he thought about them every day in life and never stopped trying to see them in death. If he was given eternity, there wasn’t time for Hector to profess how much love he had for the woman who set his heart on fire and for the daughter who had given him a reason to never stop fighting to cross the stupid flower bridge.

Imelda held him tightly. No words needed to be said. A gentle squeeze and a kiss to his forehead were all Hector needed to know that Imelda loved him. He wished that there was some way to reciprocate her love. But as his body steadily deteriorated, there was no way for him to do so. His strength was gone. He couldn’t lift himself up or hold her like she held him. Imelda had to hold his hand up when they sent Miguel back. Hector couldn’t speak either. The Final Death had taken his voice from him. All Hector could do as the Final Death stole more and more away from him was to keep his eyes on Imelda, the love of his life.

It wasn’t much but staring into her eyes, simply seeing her was enough to hold him on. However, the Land of the Dead was built on memories and Imelda’s love was not enough to keep him. With a quivering breath, Hector Rivera closed his eyes. His body succumbed to the Final Death. In the bright shimmering golden light of the sun, Hector died. The anguished cries that came from Imelda were unlike anything that had ever been heard in the Land of the Dead before. In front of thousands, the denizens of the afterlife saw the redemption of a father, a husband, and great-great-grandfather and the second time Imelda Rivera became a widow.

No one ever knew where the forgotten souls went. Hector who saw more than enough of his friends disappear into the great beyond, didn’t have a clue either. But here he was, in a vast endless space of all-consuming darkness. Without knowing any better, he started walking. Something in his bones told him to walk and walk he did until he heard a song. It was soft and sad but it was familiar. Through the darkness, he heard the familiar lyrics of his daughter’s lullaby. His heart wanted to follow the song. It had been years since he heard it being sung right but his mind wanted to continue on through the endless night.

There’s nothing left for us here, his mind urged, move on.

After the song, his heart begged, I want to hear it play right.

Hector stayed in the darkness, listening to the song that had been butchered and bloated until it was unrecognizable that was finally, after years of misuse, was done justice.

It’s done, his mind was satisfied, let’s go.

“No,” Hector shook his head. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind thinking those thoughts but Hector decided that he didn’t want to continue forward. He turned on the base of his heel and went back. Hector wasn’t sure where he was going but going back sounded good to him.

Where in life, Hector failed to return to his family, in death, he came back.

Chapter Text

For a guy who had been dead for nearly a century, Hector Rivera was a hard man to find.

Miguel wiped the sweat from his forehead as he sat in the back of the beat-up pick-up truck under the sweltering summer sun. Originally, he planned on spending his summer with his guitar and inside a recording studio but with the passing of Mama Coco just two months ago, a thought occurred to him: Hector wasn’t buried with the rest of the family.

It wasn’t fair or right and so, instead of working on his music, Miguel spent the first couple of weeks of his summer in a truck with his father and his grandmother looking in cemeteries for Hector. The search hadn’t gone very well. Mama Coco’s letters led them to the final town that Hector had been in and where Ernesto became a solo act through murder but finding Hector’s grave? Nearly impossible. The public burial records were burned in a freak fire decades ago. Piecing together the past came in the form of interviews with people knew people who worked with the church and little slips of paper that survived being burned. It was a hopeless search that came with more disappointment than leads. Miguel's father, Enrique left the latest church that their search brought them too. 

"Thought you might be thirsty," he said, handing a bottle of soda to his son. 

"Thank you, Papa. Any luck?"

"Ay, no. Everything's a mess in there," he shook his head.

"Oh..." 

“The records keeper thinks that maybe he was sold to a science lab?” Enrique sighed. “I heard that they do that sometimes with people who don’t have any family.” The fearful look on Miguel’s face at the thought of Hector being dissected prompted Enrique to quickly add, “But I’m sure for a singer, especially one who was with Ernesto De La Cruz at the time, they wouldn’t do something like that!”

Miguel played with the cap from his soda bottle. “I wanna bring Papa Hector home.”

“I know, hijo.” His father jumped onto the back of the truck and sighed. Miguel rested against his father’s side. “I do too but sometimes a family gets split apart. This is one of those times but as long as you keep your great-great-grandfather’s memory alive through the stories and the love that Mama Coco gave us then that will be enough.”

“I know, Papa but after everything, with Mama Coco? I thought it would be nice, you know? To have the family together. Nothing’s more important than family.”

“Heh, that’s my boy.” He pulled his son into a one-sided hug. “We can look for him for a couple of more days but then we have to head back home, alright?”

“Alright, Papa,” Miguel accepted but he was by no means happy with it.

“We’re not giving up on him, Miguel. We’ll still look for him but the business needs me and your grandmother and you need to work on your song. You still want to perform it for talent contest this year, right?”

“I do!” Miguel answered earnestly. “But it’s not right yet. It’s missing something.”

“Well, I’m no musician but why don’t you get your guitar and play? I’ll listen and see if I can help.”

Miguel reached for his guitar that was inside the truck. He took in a deep breath and started to play.

“Say that I’m crazy or call me a fool but last night it seemed that I dreamed about you,” he sang softly. “When I opened my mouth what came out was a song and you knew every word and we all sang along.” Miguel and looked at his father expectantly. “That’s all I’ve got. I don’t know what should come next. Nothing feels right. It feels like it’s missing something here.” He placed his hand over his heart.

“What does your heart say?”

“That it needs something like Da-Da-Da-DA! But I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Oh, so it needs something like da-da-Da-da-da-Da,” his father sang.

“Yeah but like Da-DA!”

“What if you added a flourish? And then really went into Da-Da-Da-DA!”

“Yeah!” Miguel’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I gotta write that down.” Miguel reached for his notebook. Inside the small spiral were doodles of familiar skeletons, music notes, and lyrics. Miguel scribbled down the latest idea.

“Enrique! Miguel!” Elena shouted, sprinting out of the church. “I think we found him!”

As his father drove, Elena filled them in on the new possible lead. The story went that a police officer who was in charge of a sudden death of a young man met with and discussed the burial arrangements with the man who would become the legendary Ernesto De La Cruz. The officer never forgot meeting De La Cruz and made it a point to write it down in his own personal diary. He included the lot where Ernesto’s friend was buried and hoped that someday, when Ernesto who would make it big, might come back and give his friend the burial he deserved. After all, he made such a scene about his dear friend dying. The tears that he cried were genuine and the heartache in voice was true. Why wouldn’t Ernesto move heaven and earth for the dear friend that he swore he would never forget?

Elena, Enrique, and Miguel arrived at the cemetery on the edge of town. It was where those who weren’t claimed by family or friends were buried. The cemetery was a sad sight. Crumbling headstones and crosses littered the landscape. It made Miguel more determined to bring Hector home to Santa Cecilia. There were gravediggers waiting for the Riveras. A portion of the lot was overturned. Six coffins that went undisturbed for nearly one hundred years laid neatly in a row. There were two more rows of coffins underneath.

Miguel wondered which row Hector was in and if any of the people buried here were still remembered in the Land of the Dead. He tried not to think about how close his great-great-grandfather had come to dying a second time. Now was not the time for sad thought but for hope. Hector was coming home.

However, the gravediggers, upon seeing Miguel requested that he not take place as they opened the coffins. They claimed that a graveyard wasn’t the place for small children. Miguel protested, stating that the dead didn’t scare him and that he was brave but a gentle scolding from his grandmother sent Miguel back to the truck.

Strumming his guitar, struggling to find the words to his first song, Miguel watched as his father, grandmother, and the gravediggers start the long task of opening the coffins. Miguel frowned. He should be there with them. He wasn’t scared of skeletons. Not after what he’d been through. He helped save Hector’s life and been on an incredible journey – Miguel grabbed his pen and wrote down, “To a melody played on the strings of our souls!”

That was good! That was really good! And it gave Miguel the courage to go sneak into the graveyard. Carefully, he snuck out of the truck. He hid behind a mound of dirt nearby. One by one the graves were opened. Neither Elena nor Enrique recognized anyone inside.

“Maybe it was a false lead,” Elena sighed.

While they were distracted, Miguel moved closer. In the final coffin, he saw Hector. Miguel half-expected his great-great-grandfather to jump out of his grave and sing and dance. But while the fact remained that Hector was dead and would continue to be as such, Miguel was found himself facing a new problem. He knew that the man inside this coffin was Hector but he had no proof. His journey into the Land of the Dead was unbelievable. Miguel struggled with a way to prove Hector’s identity, when in Hector’s front pocket, Miguel saw a familiar photo sticking out just a hair. He retrieved it and couldn’t help but grin back at an alive Hector smiling awkwardly for the camera. The photo’s ghostly counterpart was lost in the Land of the Dead but this time, Miguel swore he would put it up on the ofrenda.

“Ay! PAPA!” Miguel shouted. “I found him! I found Papa Hector!”

“Hijo! Get out of that man’s grave!”

“But Papa! Look!” Miguel waved the photo for all to see. “Look! It’s him! It’s Hector!”

It took some minor convincing but when they saw Hector’s golden tooth and photo, it was a done deal. A month later, he was reburied in Santa Cecilia next to Imelda.

Hector Rivera was finally home.

Chapter Text

A lot could change in a year.

As Hector Rivera nervously stood in line to cross over the Marigold Bridge, his mind was in a daze. He could hardly believe that only a year ago he was here, dressed up like Frida Kahlo, trying to get through in a sad attempt to see his daughter. And now – Hector glanced over to Coco who was in another line and talking with her husband Julio – Coco was here with him. He never got to cross over while she was alive but now he got to spend the rest of his afterlife with her.

The line moved forward. Hector tried to calm his nerves. A year ago today, he nearly died. In the arms of the love of his life, he was nearly forgotten but Miguel and Coco had saved him at the last possible second. He was still here. Coco had made sure that his memory lived on after she was gone. Coco had the music ban lifted and she fixed that family photo.

So, there was no reason that he shouldn’t be able to cross over and see his family. There was no reason at all and yet, despite all the reassurances that he had been told, Hector was scared out of his mind. After 90 years of trying to cross, to suddenly be able to do it now seemed too good to be true. Actually, it felt like the start of a cruel joke. He could feel it in the bones. He could see it in his mind. He could feel that crushing moment of where he would step up to the booth and then that horrible moment of “Sorry, nobody has put your photo on an ofrenda. You can’t cross over,” and then he would be dragged away again and placed in a cell.

Hector moaned and fidgeted in his spot. He didn’t think he could take it again if he was rejected. He looked back at the Land of the Dead behind him. It wouldn’t be so bad if he chose to leave. If it was his choice to not put himself through the act of being rejected, then he could live with it. Hector slowly inched back. He could make a break for it. Hector took a deep breath but before he could turn around and walk away, across the booth, his wife’s voice called out to him.

“Hector, don’t keep me waiting,” Imelda said.  She smiled softly and that was all that Hector needed to stay in line.

A few minutes later, and it was his turn. With his luck, he got the same agent that he tried pulling his Frida disguise on. She looked at him skeptically and he smiled nervously at her. A look of pity crossed her face. She scanned the ofrendas of the world and waited for the result. Any moment now, Hector was sure that the lights would flash red and he would hear that same damn phrase again of “Sorry, nobody has placed your photo on an ofrenda. You can’t cross over,”

He had heard that phrase over and over again for nearly a century. He waited for the blow, for the rejection but it never came. The lights flashed green. The border agent wished him well and allowed him forward. Head spinning, Hector walked over to Imelda. She smiled and held his hand. He couldn’t believe it. He was here with her and his daughter and their family.

It didn’t feel real.

Holding hands, they came to the Marigold Bridge. Hector’s fear increased. The petals caused him to sink time and time again. This whole thing had to be a mistake or something and he would sink into the petals below. Hector held back. Imelda squeezed his hand. Hector took one step forward and was prepared for when the petals would swallow him whole. The petals lit up and supported him.

“Let’s go see our family,” Imelda said.

The walk over was filled with talk of the family, of business news, and of the latest addition to the Rivera family who carried Coco’s name.

“Wait till you see her, Julio,” Coco said, holding onto her husband’s hand. “She’s so cute! Just – Oh! The cutest little girl you have ever seen!”

Hector held the firm opinion that though his daughter was now an old woman that she was still the cutest little girl. During the walk, Hector didn’t say much. He was happy to be holding hands with Imelda and Coco and knowing that he was part of the family again. Upon arriving in Santa Cecilia, Hector’s jaw

“Wow…,” Hector looked around at the hometown he hadn’t seen in a century. “It’s all so different and-“ Hector stopped. In the middle of the cemetery, he was faced with the grand final resting place of his murderer. A flurry of emotions captured his heart but none quite so great as the ‘Forget You’ sign hanging around a bust of Ernesto. “They know!” Hector realized. “They actually know about him!”

“You sound surprised,” said Imelda. “You think Miguel wouldn’t tell the world that Ernesto De La Cruz murdered you?”

“Well, no, but I didn’t think that it would…,” Hector was at a loss for words but Imelda knew better. She took hold of his hand again and said to the others, “Go on without us. Hector and I are going to take a walk around town.”

“Are you sure, Mama?”

“Si. We’ll be along soon.”

The rest of the Riveras made their way home, Imelda took Hector away.

“Where are we going, mi amor?”

“To see the town. Come, let’s go.”

Hector could never refuse her. Hand in hand, they walked the streets of their hometown. A million memories filled his mind. He’d been away from his home for far too long but he knew the streets and roads like the back of his hand. He remembered the exact spot where he first saw Imelda for the first time, the alley where he would practice, and the bar where he first met Ernesto De La Cruz.

“Hector? Are you alright?”

He sighed. “I never thought I would be back in Santa Cecilia again. Everything’s so different now.”

“It is,” admitted Imelda. “But some things stay the same. There are still mariachis in Mariachi Square, the shoe business is still there, and – “Imelda saw a young boy running in the streets, holding a guitar and wearing a mariachi outfit, “And there are still children running wild.”

Hector jumped aside to let the young boy pass when he recognized him.

“Hey! Miguel!” Hector shouted. “It’s me! Your Papa! I’m here! I’m really here!”

“Hector!” Imelda ran after him and her great-great-grandson. Miguel went into the cemetery. “Hector, he can’t see you or me. He’s living now.”

“Oh, right,” Hector laughed sheepishly but he continued to follow Miguel to the graves. “Sorry, I forgot but ay, look at him! He’s a musician now!” Hector stood in front of Miguel. “I’m so proud of you, hijo. You’re going to do amazing things, I just know it.”

“Hola Mama Imelda! Hola Papa Hector!” said Miguel happily.

Hector gasped. He reached out to hug his great-great-grandson but realized that Miguel wasn’t talking to him but to the graves that he stood in front of. Hector stepped aside.

“Is that where you are…” Hector asked.

“Si. I am told that I had a lovely funeral.”

Hector stared at his wife’s grave. It chilled him to think of her death but what was in the ground was her physical form. The real Imelda Rivera was here with him. He wondered where his physical form buried when Imelda nudged him.

“Hector? It looks like I have company.”

Beside Imelda’s grave, was a new headstone. In bold letters, it was engraved: HECTOR RIVERA. BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, AND MUSICIAN. GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN.

“I’m here too!” Hector exclaimed. “I’m here! Imelda look! Look! I’m here!”

“Mama Imelda? Papa Hector?” Miguel sat down in front of the graves. “I hope you’re doing well and Papa Hector I hope you like your new resting place. It took a while but we found you. Welcome home!”

“It’s good to be home, Miguel!” Hector said tearfully.

“Are you going to cry?” Imelda asked.

“A little.”

Miguel smiled at his great-great-grandparents graves. “I wish we could have spent more time together but I’ve got some exciting news. I wrote my first song! You inspired me and I got to sing my song in the contest and I won!” Miguel placed sheet music onto Hector’s grave. “I know you’re me no matter what. Thank you, Papa Hector, for everything.”

Hector wasted no time picking up the offering. He beamed with pride as tears freely fell. “I’m so proud of you, Miguel!”