Chapter Text
Once, when she was a little girl of maybe 7 or 8 (she couldn’t quite remember), Julieta’s brother had had a nightmare. This wasn’t uncommon, as Bruno had told both her and Pepa about the strange visions of fire and scary men he saw sometimes in his dreams, not quite prophecies but not quite something false, either.
On that particular night, Julieta had found Bruno sobbing in the hall outside their rooms, huddled in a miserable little ball as he trembled. She hadn’t known what else to do but hug him, so she had, and they’d stayed there for a whole hour until Bruno’s tears had dried and his eyelids had become heavy. The whole time, high above them, Julieta’s mother had been bent over the candle that had given them their gifts, her hands clasped together in prayer. She hadn’t heard Bruno or Julieta when they’d left their rooms, and she didn’t hear them when they returned to them.
And over the years, Bruno’s nightmares never truly went away. The scary men on their horses never went away, the fire never went away, the screams and urgent cries and crackle of flames never-
“Aah!”
Julieta gasped, sitting up in bed with a start and clutching at her chest. She swallowed and inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart and forget the haunting image of brilliant green eyes.
“Hnnh- Julieta?” Agustín mumbled from next to her in bed, and she looked over at him, startled at his voice. He was still half-asleep, eyes closed, and she leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Just a bad dream, mi amor,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to get a glass of water.”
The part of Julieta’s room that wasn’t occupied by her and her husband was a grand but cozy kitchen made to look somewhat similar to Casita’s own, fully equipped with everything Julieta might need for her culinary creations. She was heading over to one of the cabinets, intending to grab a cup, when she heard it.
Something was shuffling around outside.
It’s probably an animal, Julieta told herself, Or maybe one of the kids is out of bed.
Or maybe it’s… someone else.
Her mind made up, she turned away from the cabinets and headed for the door instead, telling herself not to be too hopeful.
Just an animal, she repeated in her head. Just an animal; nothing more.
Except it wasn’t an animal, because an animal couldn’t have moved the large potted palm that sat out in the hallway several feet to the left. And whoever it was that had moved the plant was still there, curled up with their back resting against the pot and facing away from her. When Julieta tiptoed closer, she saw that they had their hands clamped firmly over their ears.
Ah.
“Dolores,” she whispered, eyeing Pepa’s door warily- her sister was well-known to be a light sleeper- and moving forward to crouch down in front of her niece, “Dolores, honey, are you okay?”
“It’s too loud,” came the response. Julieta paused, listening, but all she could hear were the faint sounds of cicadas. Still, she wasn’t the one with super hearing, so she lowered her voice as much as she could when she addressed Dolores again.
“Why aren’t you in your room?” She asked. “It’s quieter in there, isn’t it?”
“Too small. I felt,” Dolores paused, “trapped.”
Julieta could understand that. She’d seen Dolores’s room before, with its padded walls that blocked out most noise, the odd collection of musical instruments arranged neatly opposite the bed, and the harp in the corner that seemed to play itself. It was nice, but it wasn’t very spacious, easily Casita’s smallest bedroom besides the nursery. Honestly, Julieta was surprised that it was only now, 12 years since getting her gift, that Dolores was feeling claustrophobic.
“I see,” she said. “May I sit with you?”
“Okay.”
Julieta seated herself next to Dolores so that they were facing each other, unable to stop the memory that suddenly resurfaced as she did so. The moon was full just like it had been on the night she’d comforted Bruno after his nightmare, and the sky was just as clear, and this wasn’t Bruno, it was Dolores, and Dolores needed her.
Julieta extended her hand to the girl, offering her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Here, give me your hand,” she said. Dolores obeyed, and she used her thumb to trace the lines of her palm. “Now forget all of the other noise you hear and focus on my voice, just my voice.”
And Julieta hummed.
It was a simple tune, something she’d come up with when Luisa was a baby and used to lull both her and, later, Mirabel to sleep on rougher nights. Julieta would be the first to admit that she wasn’t a particularly good singer, but she was proud of the sweet, simple melody. If she recalled correctly, Dolores and Isabela had been 4 when she’d first sung it, and she’d never sung it to them, and yet Dolores’s eyes widened like she recognized the lullaby.
“I know that song,” she breathed.
“You do?” Julieta asked before she remembered that she was talking to someone with extraordinary hearing. Of course she’s heard it before.
“I heard you sing it to Luisa,” her niece said, confirming her theory, “And Mirabel. It was years ago.”
“And I’m singing it to you now.”
“But I’m not-” Dolores seemed to reconsider what she’d been about to say, cutting herself off with a little squeak. “It’s meant for your daughters. Shouldn’t you-”
“Oye, Dolores,” Julieta interrupted her gently, reaching out to cup her cheek with a tender hand, “You might not be my daughter, but you’re my beautiful, favorite, only niece. And that means I have to make sure my love for you is extra special, song and all.”
“…Oh,” Dolores whispered, “Oh.”
She seemed genuinely surprised, and Julieta felt something in her heart ache a little. This must not be the first time she’s been out here feeling overwhelmed, she realized, and I just never knew about it. Maybe Pepa had heard Dolores and gone to comfort her before, or Felix, or maybe even Isabela.
But Julieta never had.
“Here,” she said, “Look.”
There were always a few lit candles lining Casita’s floors, and she carefully moved three of them over to rest in a row at her feet. Julieta blew two of them out and removed the third one from its holder, using it to re-light one of the candles.
“This candle is my love for my Isabela, and my Luisa, and my Mirabel,” she explained, and then she lit the second candle and placed it next to the first, “and that’s my love for you and your brothers. There’s enough to go around, ¿no?”
Dolores just stared at the three lit candles for a minute, their flickering flames dancing in her eyes, and Julieta wasn’t sure if she was closer to laughing or crying until she simply nodded her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “for thinking you wouldn’t want to sing me the song.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Julieta told her. “I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel loved enough. I’m going to be a better tía from now on, I swear, and I’ll sing you a thousand lullabies if that’s what it takes.”
She didn’t get a response, so she hummed again, repeating the familiar melody over and over and watching the three candles as they continued to burn. Dolores closed her eyes, and after a while, Julieta thought she might have fallen asleep before she suddenly spoke again.
“I think I’m ready to go back to my room,” she whispered, slowly getting to her feet, “Gracias, Tía.”
“Good night, Dolores,” Julieta said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Dolores turned and hurried off in the direction of her own room, but Julieta had seen the look on her face before she went- she’d been smiling, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. And maybe it was Julieta’s imagination, but she could have sworn that the candle glowing above her head burned just a bit brighter, because she’d finally heard. Her mother hadn’t hadn’t heard Bruno on that night so many years ago, but tonight, she had heard Dolores.
But Alma had had a candle to pray over on that night, a life to mourn, and Julieta didn’t.
And she couldn’t help but think that that had made all the difference.