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Chapter Text

Five Minutes Old

She is five minutes old and he is the first to hold her, and not even on purpose.

Bruno is all right with children, but terrible with babies. He almost dropped Isabela the first time he held her, scared poor Dolores to tears, and he doesn't even want to remember what happened with little Luisa. By the time Camilo was born, everyone knew better than to pass the baby to Bruno. His hermanas joke that his touch is cursed, that he can turn a smile into tears in a matter of seconds. Their teasing is in good nature, and he grins along to every joke, but underneath he wilts like a flower denied the sun.

It isn't as if he's trying to be hopeless. In fact, he does everything in his power not to be. He swore to himself when Pepa first fell pregnant that things would be different — he would be different — and no one would have any more reason to think of him in that way that they did. But perhaps this was one more thing he's failed at.

Julieta had labored the entire night and day and still his little sobrino or sobrina doesn't seem to be coming anytime soon. Augustín has been at her side the entire time, holding her hand as his own turned purple. Alma is at the foot of the bed, chanting encouraging things, and downstairs, Félix is calming anxious villagers who've gathered at their front stoop when the Madrigals failed to make an appearance for the third day in a row.

Bruno paces back and forth in the hall outside Julieta's bedroom, tearing out his hair and wringing his hands raw. He who has been present for every one of his sisters' births, who knows as much about the process as women themselves, knows something is very wrong without having to ask. Isabela and Louisa came swiftly and with ease. Bruno fears the child is stuck or the cord is caught and has to be untangled, or something worse.

He comes to a sudden halt and pushes back his shoulders, straightening in vain when he spots Alma marching towards him. Hours before, she asked him if the birth would be a success. He confirmed that it would, but he hadn't foreseen this — the hours of labor and pain and suffering.

He always sees too much or too little.

"The child's stuck," Alma says lowly, confirming his suspicions. "Where's Pepa?"

Bruno frowns. "She went for a walk to clear her head." His sister (who took it upon herself to remove herself from the room when she hailed all over the birthing bed) left the house thirty minutes ago for a calming walk and thought it would be helpful to take the grandchildren with her.

Alma pales.

"I could fetch her?" he offers.

She shakes her head sharply. "Not enough time." She glances at him, and then at Félix below, and back at him. Her mouth assumed a determined line. You'll have to do, her eyes say.

“Come."

Bruno hesitates for a split second before following.

Inside, Bruno is ordered to stand here and put stuff there and hold this and pass Alma that. He does it all silently, heart aching at his sister's cries of pain and giving her what he hopes are encouraging smiles throughout the ordeal. Augustín sends Bruno a grateful look as the older man places a cool cloth on his sister's brow and winces as his wife squeezes his bruised fingers.

Casita, their wonderful house, is doing all that it can to help. It opened the windows to allow in the sun's warmth and fans Julieta with its shutters. Everything Bruno can't reach fast enough or quick enough, it retrieves and passes to Alma with a sliding of tiles.

Outside, the sun begins to fade. Another day gone. And as the sun finally surrenders to the moon, as the day finally bleeds into night, a new life is brought into the world.

Small.

Wrinkled.

Pink.

Silent.

"She isn't breathing," Augustín says, panicked, as his daughter (another girl!) lays deathly still in his arms.

Alma takes the infant and pats her cheek. Pinches her gently. Prods her. Pokes. The child doesn't stir.

Julieta begins to cry.

"What do we do?" Augustín looks to Alma for guidance, who is patting the niñita on the back.

"Wake up," she mutters. “ Despierta.  Wake up.”

Bruno curls his fists and forces down the rising surge of anxiety in his chest.

"Is she—" Julieta hiccups, and more tears spill. Augustín clasps her hand, face tight. "Is she—"

Alma shakes her head, and a rare glimpse of frustration and desperation make their way onto her features. "Breathe, little one. Respirar."

"It's not working." Augustín is as pale as a sheet. "It's not working!"

“Breathe, little one," Alma coaxes anxiously. "Come on now."

"Mamá—" Julieta's brow is knitted and her cheeks are damp with grief.

"Give her to me."

Three heads whip around.

Bruno is there, standing with his arms held out like an offering before him. Their faces look as shocked as he feels.

What am I doing?

This is going against everything he has ever known. He is Bruno the Bother, Bruno the Broken, Bruno who clings to the shadows and the fringes and the edges of the crowd, who people shy away from and sneer at and whisper about behind closed doors. He isn't some natural tío with a magical touch, who is a natural when it comes to all things infants.

But something in him is telling him to do this. It is that same feeling he gets when searching and scanning the future, that urges him and guides him through his visions. He trusts it, and knows he has to do this, that this is the right thing to do.

Alma eyes him begrudgingly. She, like him, has not forgotten the unfortunate incident with poor Luisa. But Bruno keeps his arms out, and seeing no other option, she caves and hands him the child.

He holds the girl carefully, as if she is a doll fashioned out of glass, and marvels at how soft and small she is. He firmly ignores the heavy stares of his madre and the tears of his hermana as he gazes down at his new sobrina.

"Wake up now," he says gently, rocking her against his chest. "It's time to meet the world." He lifts her up, brushing their cheeks together, and listens for a heartbeat.

Wake up and breathe, little one.

Open your eyes.

Slowly, the girl opens her eyes, and twin brown pools blink up at her tío.

Bruno almost shouts in relief and clutches her tighter to his chest. Augustín really does shout in relief, and Julieta bursts into a new wave of tears. Alma collapses wearily and sends her hijo a rare look of shining approval.

Bruno smiles softly and passes the girl back. "She's a true wonder," he tells his sister. "A miracle."

"Sí," Julieta weeps. "Bruno, gracias, gracias." Gratitude is etched in every line of her face as she gazes up at him. "A miracle indeed." She glances down at her hija. 

"My little miracle. My little Mirabel."

Chapter Text

One Year Old

She is one when she says her first real word, and it is almost missed in the chaos.

It is after dinner, when the Madrigals are still gathered around the table. It has been a hard day and the large family isn’t in any hurry to leave the warmth of the kitchen and the heavenly aroma of Julieta’s food and the comforting sight of seeing each other all in one space.

Pepa has been recounting the day’s events and how she managed to water all the crops without flooding them when Dolores suddenly cries, “shhh!” 

Everyone falls silent and follows her finger to the newest Madrigal addition, who is laying against her father’s chest. Mirabel, who has been babbling nonsensically for the past four months, picks up her tiny head that is crowned in soft curls. She stares straight at her tío and says his name softly.   

“Roo-no,” it sounds like, but everyone understands. 

There is a brief pause, and then the adults are cheering, the children are clapping, and even Alma is offering a small, worn smile.

Bruno sits in shock amidst the cacophony of happiness, slightly misty eyed and entirely confused.

He has never been number one to anyone.

He is the youngest of Alma’s children; the least personable and the most forgettable. His sisters, while they are as close as can be, share a special bond he knows he’ll never have, and he is always living in their shadows. The village has never loved him, always preferring the other Madrigals to him, and when his heramas’ children came along, they too have preferred Tío Félix and his funny faces or Tío Augustín and his silly jokes to Tío Bruno and his… rats.

Bruno is always an afterthought, a second best, so it is an entirely startling and completely foreign to not be for once.

“Roo-no!” Mirabel stretches out her chubby arms towards the end of the table, and her desire is clear. Augustín obediently passes her to Bruno, who takes her begrudgingly and holds her almost too tightly for fear of dropping her. 

Ever since her silent heart started beating in his arms, he has felt a sort of kinship towards the girl. He never minds helping with the other children, wanting to do anything to assist his sisters, but he finds himself genuinely wanting to spend time with Mirabel, and it is a strange kind of feeling. He just hopes he won’t taint her with his wrongness.   

“Mirabel’s first word!” Isabela squeals, and disclaims it was she who taught Mirabel how to speak because she is the bestest big sister ever.

Glasses are brought forth by Casita. A dash of wine is poured for the adults while a cup of juice is portioned out for the children.

“A toast to Mirabel!” Félix cries, raising his glass high.

Mirabel giggles at hearing her name and snuggles deeper into Bruno’s arms. Bruno clutches her tighter and ducks one of her hands as she makes a grab for his curls. He learned the hard way to keep his hair out of her’s and Camilo’s reach. His scalp still tingles from the memories.

At least they aren’t biters.   

“To Mirabel!” the Madrigals chorus, and they drink to their happiness.

Bruno lifts his own glass. “To Mira,” he says softly, and drinks deeply from his glass.

Bruno loves all his sisters’ children, but he cannot deny that Mirabel holds a special place in his heart. While the other children fuss after being touched after a while, Mirabel is entirely content to be held for forever. And while his curls do suffer, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Julieta shoots him a look down the table with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“You like her,” she had said when she found him preparing Mira’s formula in the kitchen.

“Of course I like her,” he retorted, stirring the milk indignantly. She didn’t have the heart to tell him Mira was already fed. “I love all the children.”

Julieta simply laughed. “But it’s different, don’t you see? You’re always so fearful, but with Mira, you’re more sure, more certain. There’s something about her that just makes you…” Her hands fluttered as she searched for the right words. “Melt.”

“Julieta,” he protested, blushing. “You’re going to make me burn the milk.”

She took the spoon from him, forcing him to stop, and placed a gentle palm on his chest and his cheek.

“She calms you in here and up here. I see it in your eyes when you hold her. And for that I am eternally grateful, for if anyone deserves some peace, it is you hermanito.”

“Stop it,” Bruno mouthes over the table, knowing they are both remembering that moment in the kitchen. But Julieta only smiles knowingly, and he can’t help but adorn his own soft smile as he gazes down at his niece.

Perhaps she has stolen a small corner of his weary heart. But can something truly be stolen if it was given freely in the first place?  

Chapter Text

Two Years Old 

She is two and she won’t stop crying, and oh, how Julieta hasn’t missed this stage of childhood.

There is simply something magical about the number two. Every Madrigal grandchild has gone through a temperamental period at this age, and everyone in the Casita dreads it. Dolores and Luisa didn’t sleep for a week. Isabela and Camilo screamed for hours until their little lungs went hoarse.

Now it is Mirabel’s turn. She refuses to sleep and  prefers instead to stay up crying to all hours of the night, leaving Julieta with very little rest. Augustín and the others offer to take Mirabel to give Julieta a break, and they do, but it only results in an even bigger fuss that quickly ends with Mirabel back with her madre.

Julieta paces the nursery, rocking the child in her arms. The sun is beginning to dim, signaling the third day of Mirabel’s endless tears. Julieta, who thought she has already weathered every storm a mother could face, is on the verge of crying herself. She has tried singing, humming, rocking, walking, talking, whispering, feeding, changing, but nothing works.

Mirabel just won’t settle, and the whole house is on edge. Poor Dolores has barricaded herself in her room, desperately trying to find some peace and quiet, and Pepa is raining up and down the hall because Camilo is becoming cranky from hearing his prima’s endless wailing.

The only Madrigal who has been spared from this torture is Bruno, who happens to be staying for a few nights with a patron who’d paid a hearty sum for a prophecy (that lucky bastard).

Julieta walks another lap around the room, clutching the crying babe in her arms. Augustín tried to stay and help, but she shooed him away and tasked him with caring for the other girls. She doesn’t regret doing so, but oh, how she longs for a moment of peace and quiet.

“Julieta?”

Bruno stands at the door, eyes weary, shoulders hunched, knuckles bruised and bloody. He wears clothes that are dusty from travel and looks even worse than she does right now, which says a lot. 

Julieta blinks and wonders briefly if perhaps she is hallucinating from lack of sleep. “You aren’t due back until tomorrow.”

Bruno smiles at her sadly as he enters the nursery. “He kicked me out as soon as I showed him the vision. Apparently, it wasn’t what he thought it would be, or what he wanted. ”

Julieta‘s heart aches for her brother. “Oh, Bruno… I’m so sorry.”

She knows how the villagers perceive him and his Gift. At first it had been with open arms and eager hearts. But over the years, they came to the collective understanding that his Gift doesn’t always promise sunshine and rainbows. In fact, it almost never does. And with this revelation came the villagers’ disappointment, discontent, suspicion, and more.

And Julieta knows what that did to her brother. She knows how introverted he’s becoming—even by Bruno’s standards, who has always been on the shy side. And she knows how much it hurts him, even when he pretends like it doesn’t.  

But her hermano waves her off with a flick of his wrist and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a mask that he wears more and more often. “Don’t worry about me. Please. I should be worrying about you. How is my sobrina?” 

Despite her best efforts to stay focused on Bruno, Julieta feels herself tearing up.

“It’s been three days and she still won’t sleep,” she sniffs. “And I don’t know what to do. Mamá said to let her cry it out, but I hate the thought of just leaving her alone in her room when she’s so worked up. What if she hurts herself? What if she needs me? What if I can’t get to her in time?”

Bruno says her name gently but firmly, and through her haze of teary exhaustion, she realizes he is using the same tone that she uses when comforting her daughters. “Let me take her for awhile. Sit. Eat. Sleep. It’s not healthy to keep pushing yourself like this.”

“But—”

“No buts. What’s the worst that’ll happen? She’ll cry a little more and you’ll get a nap. I don’t know about you, but to me, that sounds like a reasonable trade.” 

Julieta can’t help but laugh, if not a little wetly. Her brother can always make her smile, even at her lowest. Bruno gives her his puppy dog eyes, and she finally caves.

“One hour,” she relents. “Wake me in one hour.”

“On my honor,” he says solemnly, and he takes the wailing girl from her arms.

Julieta stares at her daughter for a few moments, drinking in her unhappy little features, before kissing her on her brow and hurrying from the room.   

Bruno sighs. Mirabel’s face is all red and blotchy and unhappy. She looks exactly how he feels.

“Now it’s just you and me, kid.”

Bruno lets out a huge yawn as he settles himself into one of the nursery’s rocking chairs. He adjusts himself on the hard wood (they really ought to make these things more comfortable) and as he shifts, a tinkling of glass can be heard by his heart.

Mirabel halts her sobs to stare at him in confusion.

“Ah, so you heard that, did you?” He reaches into his ruana and pulls out a green piece of vision glass. He holds the glass to the window and lets the last few rays of sunlight reflect off the jagged edges.

Mirabel stares at the piece with wide eyes, and for the first time in days, she falls completely silent.

Huh. People are normally freaked out by his Gift. They find his powers creepy, and shy away from the visions. But Mirabel can’t be the farthest from creeped out. She seems almost… interested.

Intrigued even.

And when she reaches out with her chubby fingers to grab the glass, he almost drops it and her in his shock.

“Want to know more, do we? You would be the first,” he mutters under his breath.

Mirabel nods eagerly, oblivious to her tío’s  turbulent thoughts, and the wheels turn in Bruno’s head.

“Alright,” he declares, coming up with an idea. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you about my vision, but you have to be good. And by good I mean you have to be quiet, because if you aren’t quiet then you won’t be able to hear me well.”

He slips two hand under her arms and holds her up to his face, and looks her dead in the eye. “Do we have a deal?”

Mirabel stares solemnly and says, “Roo-no,” and he takes that as a yes. He settles her back in his arms and begins to tell her about his latest vision.

This is how Julieta finds them, hours later and more than slightly panicked from having not been woken up.

The two of them are in the rocking chair by the window, Mirabel in Bruno’s arms, and they are both passed out cold with smiles on their lips and secrets in their heads. 

Chapter Text

Three Years Old

She is three when she gets her first pair of glasses.  

Ever since that faithful night in the nursery, Mirabel and Bruno are practically inseparable. She has taken to him almost as strongly as her own parents, and now that she can walk, she seeks him out and calls for him constantly, demanding Roo-no pick her up at once. Unable to deny his sobrina ’s saccharine smile, Bruno complies every single time.

And thus is how Bruno is seen with Mirabel almost everywhere he goes.  

At the market.

At church.

At home.

Safe to say, Bruno gets much better at carrying babies.

Those two, the villagers say. One is never without the other, and if they are, the other isn’t far behind.

I’ve never seen a man more devoted, they say.  

I’ve never seen a child so infatuated, they say.

What must Julieta think?

Julieta simply smiles when she sees her hermano walking the halls with Mirabel on his shoulders, or in his arms, or on his hip, and sends a silent prayer of thanks for the extra pair of eyes on her hija. Being a mother of three, she has quickly learned to accept any form of help she can get, and is happy with how happy the two seem together.  

And Bruno is happy. As happy as anyone in this family, in this world, with this Gift, can be. He shows his youngest sobrina little wonders and tells her fantastic secrets and explains the world to her, and all of its kindnesses.  

“And this, mi chiquita, this is a butterfly,” he says, and she coos or giggles or babbles, and his heart swells with something incredible.

But then Mirabel turns three, and things start to change.

They don’t notice at first. None of them do.

She falls more frequently, but learning how walk ensures some tumbles, and so they make nothing of it. She has trouble recognizing people and identifying faces, but she is still young and they know she would improve in time. She runs into more stuff, too. Sometimes the wall, sometimes a piece of furniture, sometimes someone’s leg. But Casita is quick to dust her off and set her back on her feet before the adults even see what happened, and when they do, they chalk up her clumsiness to poor coordination which will improve in time as well.

But then she starts staring at the things she once laughed at, and loses interest in things she once loved. Luisa points out a bird or Dolores shows her a picture or Isabela grows her a flower, and Mirabel simply blinks at them, face passive and eyes blank. Luisa and Dolores shrug it off, but Isabel interprets it as a personal slight, and soon begins to refuse to grow any more flowers for her little hermanita.

Mirabel’s predicament is finally brought to Bruno’s attention (of all people) when he is collecting stones on the banks of the river. He set out that morning with the intention of completing this chore by himself but was ambushed by Julieta’s youngest two on his way out the door, and was all but forced to take them with him.

“Careful!” he calls when the girls wander too close to the water’s edge. The river isn’t deep and they know how to stay afloat, but he’s rather not put their swimming abilities to the test. “Luisa, Mira, come away.”

Luisa immediately stands and joins him a few paces away, but Mirabel just blinks in confusion.

“Mirabel.” His voice is firm and leveled — a tone he rarely uses. He takes Luisa’s hand and holds out the other to her. “Come away from the river.”

Mirabel cocks her head like a curious little owl, and Bruno’s heart thuds violently in his chest as she spins a slow circle. It’s… it’s as if she is trying to locate something she lost or is searching for something she can’t find, and he doesn’t understand  

“Mirabel,” he says again, a little louder, a little sterner. She has never disobeyed him before, but he has never given her an order. “Come here.”  

Shrugging, the little girl breaks into a clumsy run and Bruno’s heart drops to his feet as he cries, “Mira!”

he watches in horror as the little girl runs exactly where he doesn’t want her to go.

She heads right for the river.

Tearing away from Luisa and telling her to stay put, he dashes after Mirabel as she made a beeline for the water.

“Mirabel!” he shouts as he runs to catch up with her — he really should work out more — how on earth is a toddler so fast? “Mira!” 

The little girl pauses a hair’s breadth from the water’s edge.

Bruno grasps her arms in a vice like grip and pulls her away from the river. He is breathing hard, sucking air in deeply through his lungs, which are burning and feel like they’re on fire.

Are you crazy? he wants to say. He wants to shake her and tear out his hair, but everything that is perched on the tip of his tongue disappears when her little lip quivers. (Afterwards, when his heart has returned to a somewhat normal pace and his pulse had calmed, he knows his fear was irrational. The river is gentle and shallow where they were, and it was a warm day. The most trouble Mirabel would’ve gotten herself into would’ve been a wet skirt and talking-to by her mother, most likely. But that isn’t the point.)

Bruno’s hands, withered and chapped old things, flutter across Mirabel’s hair, her cheeks, checking for nonexistent injuries. Luisa comes up beside them and watches with a solemn expression as her tío takes several centering breaths.

“I was calling for you,” he says weakly. He clears his throat and tries to steady his voice. He’s never been good at reprimanding. “You have to come… you just have to listen next time, okay? You could’ve been hurt and it would’ve made all of us really sad. 

“I sorry,” Mirabel sniffs. “Don’t want to make you sad.”

His resolve softens at her crumpled face. “It’s alright, kid,” he says wearily. “No harm, no foul.”

You mother might kill me for almost killing you, but other than that, everything’s great.

He sees that she is shivering despite the midday sun so he slips out of his ruana and drapes it on her. The green fabric swallows her whole, dragging on the ground by her feet, but it seems to do the job and she stops shivering. 

Luisa joins them and places a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. She pats her kindly as Bruno throws several handfuls of salt over his shoulder.

I should’ve brought more salt, he thinks grimly.

“Okay, I… I think we’ve had enough adventuring for one day.”

Luisa fetches his forgotten basket of stones (the basket he was struggling to carry) and lifts it as if it is nothing. Which is is. To her. 

Almost shyly, the older girl holds out her hand to her younger sister. In her palm is a green river stone, polished smooth from the water.

“Look Mira,” she says a little awkwardly. 

Mirabel frowns at the outstretched hand. 

“It’s verde.”

Mirabel squints in confusion. 

“Your favorite color?” Luisa tries.

Bruno has a revelation. 

“Mira.” He holds up his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

The little girl stares at him helplessly. 

“What color is Luisa skirt?”

Mirabel sends a fleeting glance at Luisa before shrugging hopelessly.

Cupping her cheek, he guides her head with his palm. “Can you see that bird on the flower?“

She blinks and rubs her eyes with her little fists, and Bruno finally understands. 

He fishes in his pocket for one of Julieta’s arepas and passes it to Mirabel. He patiently waits for her to finish swallowing before repeating the same questions. 

“Tío,”  Luisa says, beginning to catch on. “What’s the matter?”

“I think,” Bruno says slowly as Mirabel continues to puzzle over his fingers. “Your sister might need glasses.”

Chapter Text

Four Years Old

She is four when she loses her first tooth.

At four she is an endless bundle of energy, a forever bundle of light and love and laughter. Her joy is infectious and spills across the house, filling Casita with waves of warmth and radiance.

As Mirabel grows, so does her world, and the people within its orbit. She is like a flame, and they are the months, irresistible to her optimism and good nature and kind heart. She is always seen running around Casita and the Encanto, helping someone with this task and that chore, putting a smile on everyone’s face.

That Mirabel, the villagers say in delight. She truly is a gem. What kind of Gift do you think will she get? AndMirabel simply smiles and goes about her business, for she has been reassured time and time again and knows in her heart that her Gift will be just as special as she is, no matter what it is.

Today, her business leads her through Casita and to Tío Bruno’s tower. 

“TÍO BRUNO!”

Bruno almost drops the vision he is holding as Mirabel barges into his room and quickly slides slips it out of view. He lets out an oomf as his sobrina barrels straight into his gut and squeezes all the air from his skinny frame.

“What happened to child proofing the door,” he mutters half heartedly as he scoops her up. “Or a toddler warning?”

Casita merely ruffles its tiles from its side of the threshold. The house is clearly on Mirabel’s side. As always.

If Bruno is being honest, he doesn’t know what draws her to him. There isn’t anything particularly special or enthralling about him that scream CHILDREN LOVE ME. But ever since Mirabel started to walk, she has made it her personal mission to visit him every day after school and chores and take him on an adventure. Sometimes the pair will go for a walk in town, or take a hike up the mountain. They’ll picnic by the river and it’ll be just them, sometimes the other Madrigals will join them and it’ll turn into a whole family outing.

Mirabel likes it best when it is just them two. Tío Bruno pays more attention to her when it is just her, and she has so many questions that only he is willing to answer, like, why does the sky never end? and what color is poop when it’s inside your butt?  and if you were a cookie what kind would you be?

The others laugh at her or they’re too busy to chat, but Tío Bruno is always patient and kind. He never makes her feel like she is too much or too little or trying too hard to keep up with everyone else, and she likes that. She likes that a lot. She likes him a lot. Of all two of the tíos she has, he is her favorite.

Mirabel pulls away slightly, curls flying everywhere, and smiles wildly behind her new glasses. “Look! Look!”

She proudly points at her mouth and it takes Bruno several delayed seconds to understand what he’s supposed to be looking at.

“Ay!” he cries dramatically when he sees her missing tooth. “You lost your first tooth! Felicidades kid! Do you still have it? Oh wow, that’s kind of gross — no, no, that’s alright, I’d rather you hold on to it,” he says quickly when she offers him the tooth with a gummy smile. “Make sure to keep it safe, okay?”

Keep it safe? “Why?” she wants to know.

“Why?” His eyebrows shoot up and into his hairline. “Have you never heard of Ratón Pérez?”

When she shakes her head no he feigns a really, really big gasp. “Really?”

“No!” she cries.

“I can’t believe your Mamí and Papí didn’t tell you about Ratón Pérez!”

“Tell me! Tell me!”

Bruno has to fight back a smile as his sobrina kicks her feet impatiently in the air.

He pauses dramatically, letting the silence fill the air, before clearing his throat. “Ratón Pérez is a mouse, but he’s a very special little mouse. You see, he collects your baby teeth when you lose them and leaves you something special in their place. But first you have to put your tooth under your pillow, then you have to go to sleep. Then, when you’re fast asleep, Ratón Pérez can visit you.”

“Really?” She hears the wonderment in her voice.

Tío Bruno’s eyes twinkle like stars as he smiles and she thinks he should smile more often. “Sí, really. He used to visit me and Tía Pepa and your Mamí before we ran out, and now he gets to visit you.”

Mirabel is so excited, she thinks she’s going to burst. “Can we go now?” she asks eagerly, already imagining what kinds of treats Ratón Pérez will bring her, but her excitement fades a little when she sees her tío’s expression.

“I’d really love to,” he says regretfully, “But I can’t go right now.”

“Why not?”

“I have… work.”

Mirabel frowns up at him. “But you don’t work.”

He raises a brow in mock outrage. “Who said I don’t work?” Now he looks offended, and she giggles at his funny face.  

A soft chhhhhhh sound fills the empty chamber as sand trickles out of Bruno’s pockets. It catches Mirabel’s attention. She doesn’t know why Casita has given him such a cool room (there was sand everywhere!) but she is incredibly jealous. She loves coming here and building sand castles and making sand angels and pretending she’s at the beach, and she only hopes her room will be just as amazing.

The only thing she doesn’t understand is that Tío Bruno doesn’t seem to like his room as much as she does. He is always grumbling about sand being in places sand shouldn’t be and the endless flight of stairs (which she is never allowed to climb by herself). But that’s okay. Maybe they can switch when she gets her Door. She’ll get the sand and he’ll get the… well, she’ll find out soon enough.

“Tío Bruno,” she says as a sudden thought gripping her. “What’s your Gift?”

The adults have never told her what his Gift is and the other children have been left in the dark as much as her. Even Isabela doesn’t really know, and she knows everything (or so she claims). And when Mirabel has tried to ask, the adults always change the subject or shoo her off and or like they’ve consumed something stale and icky.

Bruno freezes, a deer in the headlights. It is an unspoken agreement among his family that his Gift is kept under wraps and not to talk about it unless they absolutely have to, and after being deterred for so long, the children know by now than to ask.

Save for Mirabel, that is. And he doesn’t know how to answer her.

He doesn’t want to lie to his sobrina, but he isn’t sure if he should tell her the truth. The future is a funny thing, and there’s a reason why humankind hasn’t been given foresight.  

A cold sweat breaks out over the nape of Bruno’s neck. If he tells her he risks losing the one person whose love for him is unconditional. But he won’t lie to her. He refuses to become such a person.

“I can see things before they happen,” Bruno says finally, figuring it is best to get it over with.

Mirabel gasps loudly. “Like… like the future?”

“Sí.”

“Like… like my future?”

“Yes.”

“Like… like all the futures?”

“I – yes? I guess?”

She blinks at him in disbelief, her glasses making her eyes look owlish and round. “That is…”

Here it comes, he thinks grimly as she searches for a word. Here comes the end of Awesome Uncle Bruno.

“That is SO COOL!” Mirabel’s face stretches into a sun eating grin.

This is turning out to be the best day ever!

Now it is Bruno’s turn to blink as his sobrina gazes up at him in complete and utter wonder.

Cool isn’t the reaction his Gift normally garners. Strange or Weird or How… peculiar is the more typical response. But if spending so much time with Mirabel has taught him anything, it is that she is the farthest thing from typical.

But then again, his traitorous mind whispers. She doesn’t know any better. She hasn’t seen a vision. But she will soon enough. They all do, in the end.

“And that’s your work? Seeing the future?” Mirabel is still grinning up at him as if he hung the moon.

“Sí,” Bruno says a little uncomfortably. “That is my work.”

“How much can you see? Is it super duper cool? Does it hurt? Does it smell?”

This is going somewhere and I won’t like it. 

He holds his breath and waits for the inevitable question as he patiently answers her thousands of inquiries. 

“I can only see specific things.” 

“Whether its cool or not is usually up for debate.” 

“Sometimes I get headaches after.” 

“No, it doesn’t smell.” 

And then:

“Can I come with you?”

Ah. And there it is.

Mirabel’s glasses have been knocked slightly askew in her excitement. With his free hand he reaches up to righten them. “No, kid, not right now.”

She pouts adorably. “Why not?”

“It’s bad a good idea.”

“How come?”

“Because my work can be dangerous for a four year old.”

And once you see a vision you’ll run for the hills.

“But—”

“Mira,” he says gently, and he walks her to the door. “I have to get ready. I’m really sorry, but I can’t talk to you right now. Another time, sí? Why don’t you go find your parents and show them your tooth, okay?”

Mirabel’s lower lip trembles as he sets her down on the threshold, and he wonders if he just incited a tantrum. She is a generally well behaved child, but a child nonetheless, and children are prone to crying when they don’t get what they want.  

Bruno braces himself for the waterworks, but Mirabel surprises him once again by sucking in her breath and walking away without any further complaints, leaving him blinking in the doorway.

Bruno shuts the door when she disappears from view and leans against it. Dios, that was close.

***

Mirabel giggles as she looks both ways before running across the hall and slipping through Tío Bruno’s door. Tío Bruno said he couldn’t play with her this morning, but he never said anything about this afternoon. Surely he’s done with his work and is free to play with her now!

Mirabel skids to a halt when she beholds the sight before her. Tío Bruno’s room, from top to bottom and side to side, is absolutely brimming with villagers. They stand patiently on the stairs in a never ending line that twisted up up up and away and into the sky, where Mirabel has never been before.  

Mirabel walks up to the very last person in line and promptly tugs on the hem of her skirt. “I lost my tooth today.”

“Congratulations,” the lady says.  

“It was my first one.”

“Oh, how exciting.” 

“Where’s Tío Bruno?”

The lady points to the flight of stairs and Mirabel gulps loudly. “All the way up there?”

She smiles kindly. “You can wait with me if you’d like. We can go up together.”

Mirabel eyes her Tío’s cavernous room. He has a lot of stairs, and she’s not brave enough to try climbing them alone. “Okay.”

The line moves at a snails pace and it feels like forever and a half by the time Mirabel reaches the top. She is exhausted and just wants to lay down and nap for a hundred years, but she is a girl on a mission, and her mission is to find Tío Bruno and make him go on an adventure today.

At the top of the stairs they have to wait some more before they pass through a creepy hallway and mist stop before a big heavy door. Not listening to the lady, Mirabel slips through and enters into a large, circular chamber of sand and strange runes. It is in here where she finally finds her tío crouching, back facing her, in the center of a whirlwind of sand and green light.

“Oh my…” the lady says.

“Tío Bruno!” Mirabel shouts over the noise. So this is what all the sand is for! She bounces on her toes, excited beyond belief. This must be his Gift! And she is finally getting to see it! This is the best day of her life!

“Don’t – don’t be frightened,” the woman says faintly.

“I’m not.” Mirabel is slightly alarmed by the strangeness of the sight, but she isn’t frightened. This is her tío. He could never scare her!

Bruno remains hunched over, muttering to himself, waiting for the prophecy to solidify in his hands. He cannot hear his youngest sobrina over the wind, only the whispering s of the future as it slithers through his mind.

Gathering her courage, Mirabel steps forward and dodges the lady’s weak attempts to grab her and pull her back to safety. She takes another step. The sand parts for her like a curtain as she approaches and it is almost like it knows her. Once safely on the other side, she goes to stand before her uncle to get a better look.

Up close, Tío Bruno looks really bad. His brow is speckled with sweat, his eyes are squeezed shut, and he is pale as milk. This would be a great time for some of Mamá’s magical food, but Mirabel unfortunately ate all the arepas in her bag on the climb up. (It was a long climb).

Mirabel places her hand on Bruno’s shoulder, and Bruno’s eyes fly open, and she gasps at what she sees. His eyes are no longer grass-colored like usual, but instead are a glowing, brilliant green that match the color of the green lights in the sand.

Bruno says her name and it comes out in a strangled cry and the whirling, spinning sand comes to a halt. It falls down between them in a thick veil, blocking him from her view, and when it finally clears a green tablet identical to the color of her tío’s eyes sits in his hands.

“Mirabel!” He winces at the ache in his bones as he scrambles to stand and tucks the tablet safely beneath his ruana.

He searches her face for signs of fear, but all he sees is the innocent curiosity of a child. He waits for her to start bawling or running or hiding, but she holds her ground, which he takes as a good sign.

But still. She shouldn’t have seen that. Most adults can’t stomach what she just saw.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” he says hastily, and she can’t tell if he’s angry or nervous or sad. “Why are you – how’d you even – my god the stairs—”

“I had help,” she says proudly, pointing back to the nice lady who is looking at Bruno funny, as if she can’t make out what she just saw. It is a look, Mirabel is sad to say, that is worn often around her tío.

Bruno’s eyes (which are now a normal color) flick briefly to the woman before back to his niece. The corners crinkle down in concern. “It’s not safe up here, Mira.”

He moves towards her as if to sweep her up and take her away, but Mirabel dances out of his reach, a wide smile on her face.

“But it didn’t hurt me! Everything was all swirly around you but it didn’t touch me! Tío Bruno, that was the super coolest thing ever—is that your Gift? Can I see another? Can you read my future?”

He mentally face palms. He’s getting too old for this. “Mira—”

“Please?” she begs.

Bruno opens and closes his mouth.

“Pleeeeeease? Or – or can I just watch you do another one?”

Bruno is torn.

He knows that tinkering with the future can be a dangerous thing, and he would never want to put his youngest sobrina in harms way.

But he is also a man, a human, a mortal, and he longs for acceptance and appraisal as all humans do. 

How long has it been since someone looked at him and truly saw him? Not just as the seer or the foreteller or the prophet, but simply as Bruno, the man of many factions who just so happens to see the future?

How long has it been since someone asked him about his Gift, not for his Gift or about his Gift? How long has it been since someone looked at him and saw all of him and wanted to keep looking?

“Not today,” Bruno finally says after considering the risks for what she feels has been a day and half.

He usually forbids people from joining him in his vision cave because of the whirlwind, but Mirabel just demonstrated she can walk through it untouched. He doesn’t know what this means, but something in him wonders if he’s supposed to share this with her her. Perhaps they are meant to do this together.

Or perhaps he’s truly lost it and this is only wishful thinking  

Mirabel gasps at him. “But someday?” She clasps her hands to her chest and bats her eyes.

Bruno sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He is a weak man when it comes to his hermanas’ children. “Someday, mi chiquita, when we are both ready, I shall show you the world.”

Before she can start doing cartwheels or flips or God knows what else, he throws up a hand to cut her off mid squeal. “But until then, you can’t come up here without me. I really mean it. There are a lot of steps and it can be dangerous, not to mention your parents would probably have a heart attack and everyone else would be really worried. Got it?”

Mirabel nods earnestly, face bright and eager. “Okay!”

She is so excited that she can hardly stand it. She can’t wait to go to bed and wait for Ratón Pérez and wake up and see what he’s brought her and spend more time with Tío Bruno and see more of his visions and ask him more of her questions and hear more of his answers.

Bruno sees the look in her eyes and hopes he hasn’t just set the wheels in motion to blow everything up. Perhaps he shouldn’t have acquiesced so easily. Perhaps he should’ve been firmer and said no. She would’ve cried at best, but at least she would be safe. 

Mirabel catches her tío off guard by throwing herself at him and flinging her arms around his waist. “You’re the best person ever!”

Bruno places a weary hand upon her head. “And so are you, Mirabel Madrigal,” he says thickly. “More than you know.”

Chapter Text

Five Years Old

She is five and Giftless.

She tries so hard to be brave in front of everyone at the ceremony (Abuela most of all) even though all she wants to do is cry for a thousand years. But it isn’t until she gets back to the nursery when she finally lets herself break into bone shattering sobs.

She leans against the door and feels her body weaken, give away, and slide down down down until she is sitting in a depressing heap on the ground. She is crying so hard she can’t even stand, can’t even breathe. She draws her legs in close to her chest and buries her head in her knees and her little fists clench her skirts, the air, searching for anything, something, to grasp on to and hold.

What’s wrong with her?

What did she do?

Something must be wrong. But she doesn’t know what to fix or how to fix it. 

Why didn’t it work?

What does it mean?

Her parents and sisters knock on the door, begging to be allowed entrance, but she doesn’t let them come in. She knows that if she sees them they will be wonderful and loving and kind. Her Mamí will give her an arepa for her tummy ache and her Papi will crack a bad joke and her sisters will make something grow or lift something heavy to see her smile, and that will make it all a thousand times worse.  

So Mirabel barricades herself in the nursery and doesn’t let anyone enter all evening.

All except one.

“Hey, kid.” Bruno waits for the mayhem of the failed gift ceremony to calm some before approaching the nursery. The house is finally quiet and the adults have retreated to the kitchen in defeat after putting the children to bed. It is only him, the hall and the moon. “Can I come in?” 

Pressing his ear to the door, all he can hear is sniffling.

“Mirabel?”

He knocks softly and she whimpers. She doesn’t want to see anyone. Her whole body hurts and her head feels too heavy for her neck.

She just wants everyone to leave her alone and let her go to sleep.

She just wants to forget today ever happened.

She just wants to be anyone but herself right now.

She just wants—

She just wants—

Bruno counts to one hundred. Then again. And again. By the fifth or sixth time he is preparing to turn around and join the others, but the tiles beneath his feet shiver.

“Okay, okay, I get the message,” he tells the empty hall. “But you have to help me help her. Give me something to work with, Casita.”

The whole house freezes for a moment — almost like it’s turning over a thought —then, to Bruno’s great surprise, the door to the nursery softly unlatches. After hesitating briefly on the threshold, he timidly steps into the dark room and closes the door behind him.

Silver moonlight spills from the window, across the floorboards, and illuminates a small lump under the bed.

“May I sit?” he says, addressing the lump.

The lump tucks her legs to her chest and says nothing.

He takes this as an invitation to perch on the edge of the mattress. Drumming his fingers lightly on the blanket, he peers around the room. Small, comfortable, quaint. He remembers the hours he’s spent in here as a child himself with a certain measure of fondness. He recounts tracing the grains in the wooden floorboards, sprawling across the well worn rugs, dancing before the sun warmed window.

Some things have changed since he was a niñito. There is a fresh trim of alphabet letters on the walls that he’d helped paint when Julieta and Peppa were first pregnant, and the floors bear new scuffs and scrapes from furniture and little bodies and God knows what else. And of course, the room’s inhabitants are entirely different too. 

Like everyone else, he thought last night would be the last time Mirabel would see of this place. He helped her bid farewell to the nursery, as she insisted he do, and he listened to her nonstop rambling as she told him all the ideas she had for her new room. (Would it be big or little or yellow or blue? Would it have butterflies or sparkles or lots of sand like your room? If I don’t like mine can I share with you or trade?)

And yet, here they sit. In the same little nursery. On the same little bed.

Bruno’s heart aches for his sobrina, as does his head, for like everyone else, he simply cannot fathom why she has been denied a Gift. 

Why did this happen?

How did this happen?

Why her?

What does this mean?

He fears what this means for the Madrigals.

He fears what this means for the Miracle.

But most of all, he fears what this means for Mirabel.

He knows Alma has developed somewhat of a one-track mind over the years and he knows she worries about the well being of her familia and the Miracle. He knows her intentions are good and her heart is in the right place, but he also fears she might (if she hasn’t already) take tonight and twisted it into something sour.

He doesn’t want what happened this evening to somehow be warped and distorted and result in pointing fingers at Mirabel, but how else will Alma, who’s always marched to the glass-half-empty tune, interpret the failed ceremony?

Bruno gazes helplessly at his sobrina as she cowers at his feet. She had been so excited — they all had — practically bursting and exploding just a few hours before, and he wishes more than anything to have that Mirabel back.

“Listen, kid. This isn’t…” He trails off, uncertain.

According to himself, Bruno’s never been good at the soothing business. He usually leaves that to his sisters. But they aren’t here right now. It is only him, because for some unknown reason, while Casita complied with Mirabel’s wishes to shut the rest of her familia out, it had granted him entrance.

Mirabel buries her head in her knees. She has always favored her uncle’s presence, but right now she just wants him to leave.

When Bruno doesn’t say much else, Casita nudges his foot with a floorboard. 

“Ay, I’m going,” he hisses. He thinks for a few minutes before he slips off the bed with a grunt, slides under the frame, and settles next to her on his belly.

Together, they look out over the nursery. A child’s kingdom. This was once her sanctuary. Now, she doesn’t know what she sees.

Mirabel doesn’t move, even when Bruno bumps her arm with his.

Bruno coughs purposely.

No response.

“Did you know,” he says finally, voice husky with night. “That when you were two you refused to sleep? You cried and cried and drove your poor Mamí up a wall. It wasn’t until I shared my visions and I showed you my vision glass that you finally settled down. You were fascinated with them — you always wanted to touch the pieces and hold them — and I had to keep you from cutting yourself on the sharp edges. We think that’s where you got your love for green from. The visions, you know?” He laughs weakly at this, and is met with more silence.

“Mira?” Her head is turned and she won’t look at him. “Will you talk to me? It doesn’t have to be… to be about… it can be about something else? Or… or not anything?”

Dios, he is bad at this. Where is he even going?

Slowly, her small face turns to him. Two large, tear stricken eyes peer up at him.

Bruno smiles. “Hello, there.”

The watery eyes blink at him. “What’s wrong with me?” 

Cutting right to the chase.

Bruno is speechless. His mind panics and starts suggesting knocking on wood and throwing some salt and he wants to tell it to shut up and let him think.

But nothing smart or witty comes.

He isn’t soothing like Julieta or sweet like Pepa or commanding like Alma. He is just Bruno, broken and battered and bruised, and he is so not qualified to be having this kind of conversation tonight.

Mirabel’s eyes well up with tears and she looks ready to clamp up and retreat again. This is when Bruno really starts to panic. Start talking start talking start talking.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he says in what he hopes is a confident tone. It comes out squeaky. He clears his throat and tries again. “There is nothing wrong with you.” 

“But there is,” she cries. Of everyone in this house, Tío Bruno has always understood her the best. Why can’t he understand her now? “I was supposed to get a Gift,” she tries to explain. “But I didn’t, and everyone else did.”

Bruno scratches his head helplessly. “I don’t know why or how the Miracle works. I don’t know why it didn’t give you a gift. But that has nothing to do with you.”

Mirabel could scream from frustration. She has so many thing she wants to say but she doesn’t know how to say them.

“But why didn’t it work for me? Why I not good enough?” Silent tears bubble up and trickle down her little cheeks. “I’m no good, Tío Bruno, I’m all bad. I’m all broken.”

Bruno’s heart breaks at her words. “Don’t ever say that, kid. It wasn’t your fault. This isn’t your fault. You’re not broken.”

“But something’s wrong with me,” she whispers, and he realizes that she can’t hear him. He can shout and scream to the wind, and she still won’t hear for she has receded into the darkest depths of her mind where no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he fights, he cannot follow. 

And he understands, now, that this is a battle he will not win — cannot win — a battle that she will fight every day for the rest of her life.

He sees so much of himself in her in this moment, and it scares him to death.

He knows what all this warring will do to her in the end — look at what it’s done to him — and he fears what she might become. He fears what she she might do. He fears what her future might be. 

“Try to get some sleep,” Bruno says finally, feeling as useless as that damn door as it faded from existence. “Everything… everything will feel better in the morning.”

Gaining no response, he grunts as he hauls himself out from under the bed and settles back on his haunches, rolling knots from his aging muscles.

“Can you—” She startles them both by suddenly leaving the safety of the shadows and clambering into his lap, and he has to put out a hand out to brace himself before they tumble over.

She tucks herself against his chest like a cat, seeking comfort and contact and answers he doesn’t have. His steady heartbeat fills her ears, thump thump thump, and hearing it calms her a little as she matches her breathing to his heart.

“Can you stay?” she asks in a small voice. Her curls tickle his chin but he doesn’t dare move a muscle. “I—” she swallows more tears. “I don’t – I don’t wanna—”

He understands her at once. “Of course,” he vows. “Always, mi chiquita.”

He picks them both up from the ground and settles them on the bed with her in his lap and his back resting against the headboard. He takes her glasses and safely puts them on the nightstand before she rests her head on his sternum. His chest quickly becomes damp with her tears but he doesn’t mind in the slightest as he draws the blanket up and over them both.

Exhausted, Mirabel’s eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and as she falls asleep, his low voice follows her into her dreams. “I’ll always be with you, kid. Even if you can’t see me. I’ll be with you.”

Chapter Text

Six Years Old

She is six when she finally learns it’s best not to talk about Bruno.

It has been a whole year since Bruno vanished into the walls, a whole year since Mirabel was denied a Gift, a whole year of doubts and regrets and fears for them both.

Bruno is settling in quite well, he thinks. He’s grown thinner and paler and scruffier since leaving (he can feel his ribs above his ruana and his curls have never been so unkept before) and sometimes he wonders if his family would recognize him in his current state.

He often thinks about that. His family.

Sometimes he wonders what his life would look like if he hadn’t taken the course that he did. Sometimes he fantasizes about returning. Sometimes he considers writing to them or giving Dolores (who’s never said anything but he is certain she has known where he is from the moment he “left”) a message to let them know he is alive and well. But those fantasies are squandered almost as soon as they are conjured, for he knows they never do anyone any good.

Besides. Other than missing his heramanas and their children and the leg space and new people to talk to and fresh food and a comfy mattress and sunlight, he’s pretty content in his walls. After all, he is never asked for a vision or scoffed or sneered at in here. The wood doesn’t seem to care about any of his oddities and the rats don’t laugh at his antics.

So yes. He is very happy in here, and he can confidently say that he is doing fine. Great, actually. Better than better.

Mirabel, on the other hand, isn’t doing so well.

A year later, her familia, once a vibrant orchestra of talent and magic, tiptoes on glass around her, afraid to say anything that might upset her and afraid to do anything that might remind her of how non-special she is compared to them.

They accept her and swear to the heavens that her lack of a Gift doesn’t change what they think of her, but everything is all wrong and weird. Mirabel feels it in her bones.

She still plays with Camilo, but when they used to imagine new Gifts for each other or beg their older sisters to show off their own, now they stand in awkward silence at any mention of a Regalo and he sends darting looks her way.

Her Mamí and Papí devote absurd amounts of time to her, taking her to the market and the river and walks around the Encanto, which usually makes her feel guilty and worse than before.

Abuela scarcely visits her in the nursery anymore, and when she does, it is always hurried and always brief.

Luisa is still Luisa, but she has become more distant and solemn, Dolores is still Dolores, but has become more quiet, and Isabela has simply become unreachable.

Nothing is as it was before, and Mirabel can’t help but feel that if Tío Bruno was here, he would make her feel normal again.

But that’s the thing.

He’s not.

There’s no Tío Bruno anywhere.

A year later Mirabel still longs for her uncle but has learned not to ask for him. She made that mistake in the beginning and would receive uneasy silence, darting, worried looks, or hushed let’s not talk about that and not now, Mira.

She still doesn’t understand why he’s become such a secret all of a sudden, or why it’s so shameful to mention his name, but it fills her with great sadness to not be able to at least reminisce on happy memories with him for fear of inciting a hurricane from Tía Pepa. 

Instead, she is left to remember him on her own, and remember him she does. How they would go walking in the market together, how they would picnic at the banks of the river, how he would always let her sit on his lap in the pew during Mass. 

And unfortunately, the very last memory they ever made. Every time she thinks back to that fateful night her stomach hurts like something fierce.

She had woken the morning after her failed ceremony and found the nursery empty. No Tío Bruno in sight. It hadn’t bothered her in the moment, for she figured he was eating or working or doing a thousand other things.

It was when he didn’t show up at lunch, or dinner, when she really started to worry. The whole family had acted weird all day. The cousins and sisters mostly just left her alone and her parents were overly kind and supportive. Mamí even stayed home just in case you want to talk, and Abuela didn’t look her way once, or if she did she wasn’t really seeing her. Mirabel was eager to see Bruno and simply put the day and all its troubles behind her, but when she went in search for him after dinner, she couldn’t find him at all.

He wasn’t in the kitchen.

He wasn’t in the bathroom.

He wasn’t in his room.

The whole family searched the entire village for weeks, and he wasn’t there either.

He wasn’t in the Encanto or the Casita. He had simply… disappeared.

And soon after, his name started disappearing as well.

And Mirabel had the horrible guilt of not knowing why. Was it because of what happened? Was he upset or ashamed of her?

Or was it because of her?

Had she somehow done this, somehow made him vanish into thin air? The last person he spoke to, the last person he saw, had been her. She was so super upset that night. Could she had somehow done something bad without meaning and not even knowing? 

Maybe the Miracle was right to not give her a Gift, for what if she had a Regalo, but it wasn’t for anything good?

Plagued with fears and terrors, she had gone to Bruno’s room that night, passed through his freshly darkened Door, and stood in the chamber of sand, all alone in the empty space.

“I’m sorry!” the little girl had shouted, as if hoping her voice could magically conjure her tío from thin air. Her words echoed throughout the silent chamber. “Did you hear me? I’m sorry! You can come back now. Just come back!”

She paused and listened.

There was something. She waited in eager anticipation, face brightening with hope. Perhaps this was simply a game her tío had conducted to make her feel better or lift her spirits. Perhaps he was preparing a surprise for her to take her mind off the ceremony, and that was why he had left.

She could see it now. He would pop out of a dune and scare her silly and they would have a good laugh and she would tell him her fears and then he would take her to bed and everything would be fine.

Chhh chhh chhh.

Mirabel slumped in a heap on the ground, face downcast and defeated. No Bruno. Just sand.

A chilly wind kicked up, caressing her bare feet and arms and causing her to shudder. In her haste she’d forgotten a shawl, and now she was both cold and alone and up past her bedtime, and Tío Bruno was still missing — and nobody seemed to care but her.

Mirabel wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, and somehow her whisper sounded as loud as her scream.

What if her tío had gone all the way up and couldn’t hear her at the top? She glanced at the stairs before turning away, shuddering. She still wasn’t brave enough to climb them alone and she hated herself for it.

Her lip trembled as she made herself smaller in the turbulent sand (it was as if the room knew it’s inhabitant was gone and was raging at Bruno’s absence) and she forced herself to remember all the good times she had in here.

Building sand castles.

Making sand angels.

Having sand ball fights.

Making sand forts.

Watching Tío Bruno conduct his visions. 

Playing hide and seek behind the dunes.

Slipping and sliding and rolling down the dunes.

“I’m sorry, Tío Bruno,” she whispered to the darkness that threatened to consume her. “Please come back. I need you.”

She spent that night in his room, and in the morning she was found under a blanket of sand by her parents, no Bruno in sight. 

Chapter Text

Seven Years Old

She is seven when her art is found, and Abuela is positively furious.

It is that time of year again, and Mirabel is trying desperately not to think about it. She feels a little bit better than last year… she thinks. She feels mostly numb, if she’s being really honest. Which is better than feeling bad, right?

Life has resumed its normal rhythm, for the most part. The familia has stopped walking on eggshells around Mirabel, which she is grateful for. They have resumed using their Gifts in front of her, and even try to include her in whatever they’re doing.

Tía Pepa takes her with her when she’s watering the crops and lets her bring a small bucket of water to reach any places that might’ve been missed. Mamí teaches her how to bake and cook and lets her pass out arepas and empanadas to the hungry townsfolk. Camilo makes her his accomplice in his schemes and ploys, which almost always end in stealing more food from the kitchen. Luisa lets her tag alone during chores, whatever they might be for the day, and Dolores makes her laugh when she tells her of all the funny jokes she overhears.

But despite everyone’s efforts of inclusion, the days leading up to Mirabel’s birthday can’t help but be murky and tense. A once happy occasion it is now tainted by sadness and wonder and regret and that won’t go away, no matter how much time passes  

And that fateful night isn’t the only thing Mirabel’s ceremony has been tainted by.

Ever since Bruno moved into the walls, he’s noticed cracks appearing in the house. At first they were so tiny and so infrequent that he didn’t even take notice. But then they started growing from the size of his finger to the length of his entire hand, and they started appearing every couple of months — four, five, six at a time.

Bruno decides to chart their progress. He doesn’t know why they’re appearing or what they mean, but cracks in a magical house that is pretty indestructible? That has to mean something bad. 

And so he watches. And he waits. And he wonders.

Mirabel wonders, too. She’s done a lot of that over the past two years.

She’s different, the villagers say.

There’s a sadness in her that wasn’t there before, they say.

She’s not herself, they say.

And she doesn’t deny that.

She doesn’t know who she is or what her purpose is in the family, in the Encanto, in life itself. That much is as clear as day. Her life feels like it has been split into two parts. Before and After. Before, she could dream alongside Camilo of the powers they’d have, and she could fall asleep with the comfort of knowing someday she would contribute to the Encanto, and make her family proud.

And now? After? She has no idea what she’s doing, or who she is, or what her path should be.

Everyone tells her that she is just as important as the rest of her family, but she wants to be good at something too. Mirabel knows she’ll never be as special as any of her siblings or cousins (she’s not stupid) but that doesn’t mean she can’t be decent at something, even if it is mundane.

Mirabel gets it in her head that she will become great at something, too. Anything will do. Just something. So everyday becomes a new hobby. A new skill, a new art. Painting, cooking, sculpting, sketching, acting, dancing, baking. It doesn’t end well, for the most part. She burns stuff and breaks stuff and ruins stuff and wrecks stuff, and she wears at Bruno’s heart as he watches her tear herself apart in her search for herself. But this is all he’s been reduced to. A silent watchman in the walls, forever at his post.

He is happy when Mirabel finally turns to drawing and decides to stick with that for a bit.

Her talents aren’t anything legendary, but they bring her a small measure of happiness. She draws all the time of the people she loves. Her Mamí and Papí are reoccurring subjects. Her sisters too (even Isabela, who only seems to be able to roll her eyes at her before slinking away) and the rest of the familia.

Even Tío Bruno.

Especially Tío Bruno.

Mirabel’s memories of him are beginning to fade and it scares her. To keep him close, she draws him the most. His curls, his eyes, his visions, his sand, his room, his ruana, his rats.

But as much as she misses him, she knows better then to show her drawings to anyone. They'd just make Mamí really sad and Tía Pepa really thundery and Abuela kind of scary and shouty.

So she keeps her drawings to herself. They’re her own little secret and no one even knows they exist.

Until one afternoon, when Bruno unintentionally finds himself in the courtyard. Well, next to it. There is a small peephole in the walls and he presses his eye to it when he hears his madre’s raised voice.

“What did you do?!”

Alma is on her hands and knees, scrubbing furiously at the wall by the stairs. Mirabel is on the floor, curled up with her legs pulled to her chest, back facing Bruno. Bruno shifts slightly to the left, trying to see what has caused his madre to become so agitated.

He sees the staircase, the Doors, the entryways leading off to the kitchen and living room and so on, until his eyes finally land on a child’s drawing on the wall. It bears the words Mirabel’s Door in clumsy letters with a stick figure of who can only be the little artist herself in a cloud of gold butterflies and glitter. And flanking her on all sides is an ensemble of smiling stick people.

Her family, Bruno realize. All of them.

His eyes greedily trace the childish depictions of the faces he only catches passing glimpses of from within his shadowy depths. He sees Alma, Pepa and Félix and Dolores and Camilo and Julieta and Augustín and Isabela and Luisa, and — Bruno shuffles closer to the peephole, squinting in disbelief — is that him?

With a sinking sensation in his gut, he realizes that it is.

Bruno is smack dab in the middle of the drawing, the closest to Mirabel, eyes glowing green and sporting the biggest grin on his face. How Bruno hadn’t seen himself before is beyond him (probably has something to do with his age and lack of exposure to natural light), but there he is, in all his Bruno glory. 

His littlest sobrina has drawn herself a door and a family who’s proud to watch her walk through, and she hasn’t left a single person out.

Ah.

Now he knows why his Mamá’s anger is through the roof.

This would do it.

And, he watches in sickening fascination, every time Alma tries to scrub away the drawing, the paint simply remains. The picture refuses to budge. It is as if Casita is trying to allow the painting to stay, to allow Mirabel this small sense of comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Mirabel is saying in a small voice as Alma continues to scrub, and something dark and mournful flickers to life within Bruno’s chest.

It is them who should be apologizing to her, not the other way around.

This little left out child has nothing to apologize for — if everyone was expected to apologize for desiring love, acceptance and approval (the most simplest and basic and important of mortal needs) then the world would have no apologies left in its lungs.

“…have people coming tonight! What were you thinking?”

Alma cries out in frustration as Casita once again refuses to let the drawing leave the wall. It seems the house is intent on having the final say.

In truth, Mirabel really didn’t know what she was thinking or doing. She’d just gotten into an argument with Isabela and she was so mad that her whole body was trembling and she stomped away in a huff, and after that, Mirabel doesn’t remember a whole lot. She’d gone to the nursery and started drawing up a new family for herself (one without - stupid older sister) and somehow she had come downstairs and showed Casita her picture, and Casita gave her the chalk and cleared a space for her to draw and she was starting her piece without a second thought.

Then Abuela had shown up.

Alma tosses the rag aside and sits back on her heels, closing her eyes in vexation.

“I’m sorry—” Mirabel swallows and pulls her knees in tighter. “I just wanted a door – like you and everyone else – even Isabela – I thought – maybe – I could make one? I just...”

Alma opens her eyes and Mirabel can see swelling irritation in them.

Can’t she see how much this is killing her?

“And you needed to do this on the day we are expecting company?”

“I’m sorry.” Mirabel’s voice is timid and small and sounds so very different from the exuberant, spirited girl Bruno used to know. “I didn’t – I thought – I just wanted—”

“Mirabel,” Alma snaps, cutting her off. The little girl visibly shrinks back. “This is an incredibly important night. It will be the first event La Familia Madrigal has hosted since…”

Since my ceremony, Mirabel finishes silently as her abuela rattles on.

“…And I cannot be doing this right now!” Alma’s cry startles them both, and leaves them blinking at each other mutely. Mirabel wordlessly follows her abuela’s stiff movements as the older woman inhales deeply and tries to compose herself into a semblance of calm.

“Just… just fetch Luisa and have her bring over the piano,” Alma says finally. “We’ll prop it against the wall and pray it hides it well. Hurry now, she’ll be by the church. And Mirabel?” she adds tightly as Mirabel makes to leave. “Please refrain from drawing on the walls for the rest of the night. Everything needs to be perfect.”

Mirabel nods once and turns away before Abuela can see her tears.

But Bruno sees them, and he feels each one as if it was a silver bullet striking his heart true as it falls to the ground.

Chapter Text

Eight Years Old

She is eight when she is taunted in the school yard.  

Her tormenter, Emilio, a boy who just moved to the Encanto with his father a month ago, is infamous among the children for stirring up trouble when the adults’ backs are turned.

Every day is a different target, and today that target is Mirabel.

Mirabel the Miracle-less, he calls her.

She ignores him for a while, until she can ignore him no longer.

He says something.

She says something back.

The children gather and watch.

Everyone knows better than to hurl insults at the Madrigals and especially not in front of the other Madrigals (nor do they usually want to) — but Mirabel’s hermanas and primos are already inside and it is only her and him and a crowd full of spectators.

Mirabel tries to block him out but she silently starts to panics a little when he begins to approach from afar. Emilio is twelve years old, big and burly, and has fists the size of plates.  

“Where’s your Gift, Mirabel?” Emilio taunts. He entraps her in his ravenous shadow and is all dark sneers and sly smiles.

“I don’t have one,” Mirabel says, feeling as small and helpless as a church mouse. Mamí and Papí had said that some of the children might be jealous of their family, but that she should always treat them with kindness because the golden rule is that you treat others how you want to be treated.

This is not how Mirabel wants to be treated.

If Tío Bruno was here he would help me.

Woah. Where did that come from? She hasn’t thought about him in weeks.

Emilio grins cruelly as Mirabel squares her shoulders and puts all thoughts of vanishing uncles from her head. He looks highly amused at her attempts of standing her ground as he crosses his arms.

“I said, where’s your Gift?”

Something flickers to life in Mirabel’s chest. Regalo or no Regalo, she is still a Madrigal, and the Madrigals do not cower from stupid bullies. 

Mirabel glares at him. “I don’t have one.”

Emilio sticks a hand behind his ear. “I don’t think I caught that.”

His eyes, his smile, his laugh.

A hot wave of anger and hatred washes over her. It’s bad enough that she lives in the shadows of her sisters and her cousins and her mamá and her tía, and with the guilt of disappointing the family without having some stranger point it out to her like she’s stupid.

Mirabel stretches to her tallest height, and not caring about the size difference or the weight difference or the obvious danger that lurks in the boy’s fists, she takes her hands, pushes him hard, and shouts, “I DON’T HAVE ONE YOU STUPID UGLY WEASEL!”

Emilio stumbles backward and tumbles to the ground before Mirabel is falling upon him, fists flying through the air. Her punches are pretty pathetic and don’t really do all that much, but she does manage to get one or two decent hits in before he finally shoves her off.  

A chorus of oooooh and fight fight fight starts up around the yard as Mirabel scrambles to stand up and put distance between them. Her chest is heaving fiercely as she stares at Emilio’s sprawled form in terrified wonder. Now it is she who is towering over him.

She glances at her bruised and bloody hands which are now trembling and won’t stop and a feeling of pure terror dread washes over her. What will Abuela do if word gets back that she was fighting in the yard?

Fury flickers across Emilio’s face as he pushes himself off the ground. “Mirabel the Miracle-less has claws now, does she?” he seethes. His lip is cut and his hair is mussed and his face is red with humiliation. “Maybe that’s why you never got a Gift! You were too rotten for a Miracle and now you’re too late!”

“Stop it,” Mirabel cries, clutching her hands to her chest.

“Mirabel the Miracle-less,” he sneers. “The only Madrigal kid with no Gift. You’re nothing and you always will be!”

“Stop it!” She slams her eyes shut and lets a sob slip out. She should’ve never gotten up this morning. She should’ve never gone to school. She is going to go back to the nursery and live out the rest of her days locked in her room, in her bed.

“Mirabel the Miracle-less! Mirabel the Miracle-less!”

Mirabel cups her ears to block out the sound but it doesn’t do much. She can’t get his ugly voice out of her head.

“Mirabel the Miracle-less! Mirabel the Miracle-less! Mirabel the Mir—”

His chanting cuts off.

Silence fills the air.

Mirabel doesn’t dare breathe.

It’s an adult, most likely. Come to scold them both.

Or maybe you poofed him away just like Tío Bruno. Maybe Emilio was right about you all along. 

Mirabel doesn’t want to look, but she sort of does. So she peels her eyes open, and what she sees makes her jaw drop.

Emilio is frozen in mid sentence, eyes rounded in terror. His body is encased in blossoms from head to toe, trapping him where he stands. His legs, his arms, his torso, all entrapped in a floral cage. In his mouth, gaging him, is the most beautiful flower Mirabel has ever seen.

“What was it you were saying?”

Isabela steps out of the shadows, one hand on her hip, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in question.

Mirabel’s jaw drops even lower.

At fourteen, Isabela is already a great beauty. She has admirers all over the Encanto vying for scraps of her attention and she has made it crystal clear throughout the years that her time is precious and will not be wasted on the likes of Mirabel.

So why is Isabela interfering now?

The children fall back in awe and fear as Mirabel’s hermana slowly circles the boy. Isabela is like a lioness eying her prey, a spider scrutinizing his trap. She is lethal and cunning and cruel, and must surely be a figment of Mirabel’s imagination.

Mirabel rubs her eyes, wondering if she is dreaming. When she opens them, she finds her sister. Nope. Not dreaming. Still there.

With viper like movements, Isabela plucks the blossoming flower from Emilio’s mouth, and she finds herself enjoying the whimper that slips past his lips. All her life she has been raised on a pedestal, packaged just so, and presented as Señorita Perfecta. It is simply exhausting to keep up the charade, and and she can't help but let herself go this one moment.

Isabela smiles again. It is cold and calculating and so very unkind.

“Say it again. I would love to hear.”

She sounds almost pleasant, but her face tells an entirely different story. For all of Mirabel’s infuriating qualities and quirks, she is still blood, she is still Isabela’s sister, and she is still a Madrigal. An insult to one Madrigal an insult to them all, and Isabela cannot have that.  

Emilio gulps loudly, and Mirabel almost feels sorry for him. Her hermana is a terrifying entity when enraged, and if Mirabel wasn’t already immune to her fury, she’d probably be quaking in fear with the rest of them.

“I – I – I —” he stutters.

“Mmm?” Isabela circles him again. As she walks, flower petals fall where she steps, and she secretly revels in the fear that clouds his face. It is so good to receive attention that is not of pure adoration or thoughtless worship or shallow praise. “Cat got your tongue?”

Emilio angers a little at this and opens his mouth to snap back. “I don’t—”

Isabela raises her hand, and everyone’s eyes zero in. From her palm blooms a rose the color of fresh blood, and she makes sure that he can see her perfectly clear when she snaps the stem clean in half with a sharp crack.

“Do go on.” She crushes the rest of the rose in her fist as she smiles sugary sweet and the children don’t know whether to whimper or swoon. “I have allllll day.”

Emilio wisely snaps his mouth shut.

Isabela turns away sniffing. “Yes. That’s what I thought.” This isn’t the first bully the Madrigals have encountered, and it certainly won’t be the last. But they always acquiesce in the end. They’re all the same.

Tossing the crumpled rose to the ground with a flick of her slender fingers, she looks at Emilio over her shoulder in disgust. Abuela has always said that serving the community is their family’s sole purpose and is a responsibility Isabela has accepted with pride and grace. She loves her familia and her home and she loves the Encanto and helping it’s inhabitants. But stupid little boys like Emilio make her think that perhaps not everyone who lives here deserves the Madrigal’s unconditional support. After all, why should this little menace be rewarded by the very family he insults?  

Isabela’s voice drips with distain. “Try this again and we’ll have another chat. Understand?”

“Sí,” Emilio whispers.

“And you—” The crowd draws back as she rounds on them. She almost forgot about her little audience. “Not a word about this to anyone. Got it?”

Isabela takes their collective silence as confirmation and swiftly spins on her heel. Years of perfecting her perfect character has taught her when the best time for making an exit is. And that is now.

The children part for Isabela like the Red Sea as she passes and she walks right by Mirabel. She wants to snap at the younger girl to close her mouth and stop looking like a fool and have some dignity, but now is not the time for such things, so she bites her tongue and keeps on walking.

Mirabel watches Isabela silently, trying to comprehend all that has happened within the last few minutes. The crowd presses forward, eager to witness an exchange between the two sisters, but neither girl speaks a single word. Isabela doesn't even give her hermanita a second look before melting back into the shadows, leaving Mirabel to simply stare after her with the rest of the children.   

The yard is deathly still for several seconds.

Then, with a gasp, Mirabel’s tormenter is freed from his floral prison. Emilio staggers a little when the roses release his legs and when he is completely free, he shoots Mirabel a look of pure, unadulterated loathing before turning up his nose and marching inside. 

The bell rings shortly after and whatever spell Isabela has cast upon the children is broken. A stampede of small feet run for the doors, leaving Mirabel alone.

Mirabel remains outside even after class starts, pacing slow circles, head hurting like something fierce as the same question turns over and over in her mind.

Why would Isabela, of all people, come to her aid?

From the shadows of the school house, Isabela watches her sister stumble across her thoughts. Don’t think too hard, hermanita, she thinks bitterly as she turns away. You won’t find any answers. 

Chapter Text

Nine Years Old

She is nine when she decides to be fearless. 

Mirabel is done being sad for herself. Done being sorry. After four long years of heartbreak and misery, she is sick of watching and waiting and hoping and praying for something that will never happen. 

And besides. Who is she to even be moaning? She has a wonderful home, a loving family. She is never in need of food or warm clothes or a bed to rest her weary head. She reads heart-wrenching stories of the outside world, she hears terrifying tales from beyond their border, she remembers how Abuela founded the Encanto, and she knows she is so lucky to have never known war or grief or hunger. 

So what if she can’t grow some stupid flowers or lift some stupid rocks? She has no business being upset over something that happened years ago. She’s still a member of the family Madrigal and she is just as special as the rest of them, Gift or no Gift. 

Right? 

Right, Mirabel tells herself firmly. 

Over and over and over again.  

Like a mantra. 

Like an oath. 

Like a prayer. 

She thinks, if she says it enough times someday the truth won’t matter. 

She thinks, if she says it enough times someday it’ll be true. 

She thinks, if she says it enough times someday she’ll start to believe it. 

And she does. She does. She swears. 

But unbeknownst to her, every vow unleashes a new crack, and Bruno watches and worries and grows more concerned. The cracks have grown in length and width will soon become too large to ignore. Today they are as long as is arm. And tomorrow? What then? What will happen? What will become of them all? Bruno doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. 

He believed — he hoped — that by leaving he could protect them. Protect her. He thought it was his only choice. But now he wonders if all he did was make things worse. There is pain simmering under Mirabel’s skin that is fresh as anything. In spite of appearances, she is hurting more fiercely than ever. She can maintain the charade for now, but the soul can only bear so much weight, and Bruno fears the day when Mirabel truly buckles. 

He does his best in the meantime to help behind the scenes. He continues to chart the cracks with immaculate precision and he patches them the best he can, as fast as he can. It is hard work, dirty work, lonely work, slow work. He can only patch things when it’s light and Casita is either empty or full of sound, and he has to wait for the house to fall asleep before slipping out for more supplies. 

But despite the dangers, he continues on. For his family. For the Miracle. For the fate of the Encanto and all its inhabitants. 

***

Over the years, Bruno has established a sort of settlement for himself. He has taken a set of rooms within the walls and has transformed them for his personal use. He has a bedroom where (with the help of Casita) he’s moved an old mattress and a nightstand in, a washroom with the basic necessities, and a living room/kitchen where he spends most of the time. 

Someone else wouldn’t exactly call his set up comfy or cozy, but it suits Bruno just fine. There’s no sand and no stairs and no stares. It’s paradise. 

And the best part about his new room is that he gets a front row seat to his family, who he watches with tenderness and care and longing. Four years in isolation and forty years before that with minimal and strained contact has made Bruno a bit attention deprived. He drinks in his familia’s light and laughter and love like a man dying of thirst from behind his walls. 

He hears about Camilo’s latest pranks and Luisa’s latest triumphs and silently cheers them both on. He watches Isabela’s and Dolores’ quinceañeras and marvels at how grown and beautiful they are. He visits his mamá in her bedroom and keeps her steady, silent company well into the night. He watches Julieta and Pepa celebrate their birthday and silently mourns alongside them. 

And he watches his youngest niece and sees how amazing she is. 

At nine, Mirabel has become somewhat famous among the Encanto. Not only is she the only Madrigal kid with no Gift, but she’s also a genuinely fun, happy, bubbly girl, who’s personality is infectious. 

She’s not as pretty as Dolores or as perfect as Isabela or strong like Luisa, but she’s always there and willing to help. 

She’s spirited, the villagers say. She’s enthusiastic.

She’s dependable. Reliable. Trustworthy. 

Mirabel doesn’t mind wearing the labels they assign her. Anything is better than nothing, which is what she has been for far too long. She has taken to helping more vigorously around the Encanto and La Casa Madrigal than ever before and the villagers and her family become accustomed to depending on her ever-steady presence. 

What they don’t see are the nights spent up in her bedroom, agonizing over every little action and detail and word. 

What they don’t see are the hours spent fearing she’ll somehow further disappoint the family and wondering how to prevent it. 

What they don’t see is how close she is to shouting and screaming and telling someone, anyone, if only they’d listen, that she isn’t fine and she wants — she needs — to be something more. (But what? Sometimes she feels like there’s no room for her, like her family has taken up all the air in the room and she is gasping for breath.)

Bruno watches her and finds himself more than a little concerned. He’s always been the perceptive kind, but living in the walls has forced him to be even more so. It is all that he’s good for now, anyway, and all that he seems to do. He sees how hard Mirabel pushes herself. She is trying to force herself into a role she does not want, into a narrative that is not hers, into a mold that will not hold. He wishes he could step in, but he wouldn’t even know what to do or what to say. 

Bruno silently urges one of the others to take notice and step in, to act when he cannot. But everyone is so busy every day with their assigned chores and tasks and duties and the family is so large and the kids are so many, that it takes a long time before Julieta and Augustín eventually notice, and he resents them just a little for their blindness. 

“You can always talk to us, you know,” Julieta says one day. 

Mirabel puts on a brave smile, but Julieta knows better. It’s the same kind of smile her hermano always wore when something was troubling him — the kind of smile she hasn’t seen in a long time. 

Her heart flutters painfully in her chest at the thought of Bruno. Dios mio, where has the time gone? Has it really been four years since he left? Sometimes it feels like centuries and sometimes it feels like days, and sometimes it feels like he hasn’t left at all. Those are the worst times, when she turns to tell him something or ask him a question or share a silly joke and is greeted instead by only silence and grief and the ice cold knowledge that he is gone.  

Gone, she tells herself. Not dead. She could not bear it if he was dead. 

“I know,” Mirabel says, oblivious to her mamí’s turbulent thoughts.   

“If anything’s bothering you, anything at all, you can always come to us,” Augustín adds as he wolfs down what must be his third sandwich. He sighs happily as his arm rightens itself in its socket before grabbing for another bite. 

Julieta shakes her head at her husband. One day it’s bees, the next it’s broken bones. 

Mirabel swings her little feet under the table. “Kay.” 
 
Julieta wipes her brow as she takes a seat opposite her daughter. She reaches across the table and clasps Mirabel’s small hand in her own. “And if anyone says anything otherwise, you know better than to listen to them, right? You’re perfect just the way you are.” 

The little girl rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mamá, I know.” 

“Good – that’s good,” Augustín says quickly. “Because no matter what anyone might say, you are just as important as any of the others.” 

“Yup. Got it,” she chirps brightly. Julieta has to fight to hide a frown. For all she’s been through, for all she’s been forced to endure, her daughter seems far too… fine. 

“And mustn’t let anyone dim your worth,” Augustín adds helpfully. “You are just as special as everyone else.” 

Behind him, Luisa runs past with a donkey under each arm and beyond her, Camilo shifts into Abuela, then Félix, then back to Abuela again, while Isabela grows a new row of perfect red roses. Mirabel’s smile wobbles a little as she watches them and Julieta cringes at the dreadful timing. 

“You have nothing to prove, Miraboo!” Augustín continues, completely oblivious to the scene behind him  

“I know, Papí,” Mirabel says quietly, and she quickly fixes her face into that of something happier. 

Julieta’s heart thrums uncomfortably at the sight. Not even ten, and her daughter has already become a master of masks. 

Julieta and Augustín frequently intervene for all the right reasons and with all the right intentions, but their interventions fail and only make matters worse. Constantly telling Mirabel she has nothing to prove leads her to believe that she does have something to prove, which she runs herself ragged to achieve. She rises before the sun and sleeps long after the moon has risen, and her days are long and laborious. She is as silent as a church mouse to avoid waking anyone else (if her parents knew what she was doing they’d surely put an end to it) but she does not succeed in this entirely. 

Bruno notices Mirabel’s new waking habits almost at once and begins to rise with her to watch over her like a faithful shadow. He’s never slept well anyway, so his sobrina’s shift in schedule isn’t so much of a nuisance as it is a concern. He follows her unhappily around the house, she in her halls and he in his walls. He knows what she’s up to. Filling her days with mindless activity to keep the darker thoughts at bay. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism he’s been guilty of himself, and he knows all too well how it usually ends, but of course he can’t warn her or caution her, he can only watch. 

***

It is during one of these early mornings when when Mirabel (and Bruno) run into Dolores. The older girl is huddle in the cellar, grumbling to herself as she stuffs candle wax in her ears. 

“Dolores?” Mirabel takes a few hesitant steps forward, not wanting to frighten her even though she knows Dolores probably heard her a mile away. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right? “Are you… okay?” 

“It’s so loud,” Dolores whispers, and Mirabel has to strain to hear her. 

Bruno tries to silence his breathing as best he can. 

Mirabel cocks her head. “What is?” 

Dolores vaguely waves her hand in the air. “Everything.”

Mirabel looks surprised at this, and Dolores must push down a wave of annoyance. She can’t imagine her life without her Gift, but sometimes she wishes it wasn’t so constant. Like a beating drum, forever ringing in her head. No one truly knows how burdensome it can really be — the thunderous whispers, the deafening chatters — and she often longs for some peace and quiet. If only she could turn it down if just for a moment. That’s all she asks. 

“Oh.” Mirabel thinks for a moment. Sometimes she wonders what life would be like if she had been granted Dolores’ Regalo. What sort of juicy gossip would she hear? What kinds of grand secrets would she learn? It all sounds like great fun and Mirabel has to force the thought from her head before she becomes too envious. 

“Why don’t you ask Casita for help? Maybe it could soundproof your room.”

“I did,” Dolores answers through gritted teeth. “It didn’t listen.” 

While Casita may respond to Mirabel’s every whim, it does not so easily answer the call of others. La Casa Madrigal certainly has its ill concealed favorites and Dolores doesn’t mind (she thinks it’s good that her primita has something) but she does acknowledge that the house’s support would be helpful in times such as now. 

“Oh…” Mirabel considers this notion for a few moments, her brow furrowed in thought. She’s never been denied by Casita and can’t fathom what that would even be like. “Maybe I could try?” 

“I don’t know…” Dolores looks at her doubtfully.  

Mirabel bounces eagerly on the balls of her feet. “It can’t hurt.” Casita has always answered her call. Why would it deny her now? “Can I try? Por favor?”

Dolores sighs. Best case scenario, it actually works. Worst case scenario, she’ll just get some more wax. “Alright. Fine. Why not?”

Mirabel cheers and quickly grabs her prima by the arm. “¡Ay — slow down!” Dolores laughs as she’s pulled to her bedroom with Luisa-like strength and Bruno is left chasing after them. 

“Hola Casita.” Mirabel gives Dolores’ Door a happy little wave. “We have a favor to ask. Could you try soundproofing Dolores’ room? Her ears could really use a break. It’s okay if you can’t, we were just wondering.” 

Panting slightly, Bruno leans forward, intrigued and curious to see how this will play out. 

The floor shudders lightly beneath their feet and a faint rumbling can be heard from within Dolores’ chambers. 

The three of them hold their breath, waiting for something magical to happen like a bright light or a rainbow display or a shower of sparks, but when nothing happens Mirabel and Dolores look at each other and open their mouths. 

“I think—”

“I don’t think—” 

“I really—” 

“I don’t really—”

Mirabel lets out a milk-curdling squeal and jumps up and down, skirts flying about. “I think it worked! I really think it worked!” 

Dolores clamps her hand over her ears and even Bruno flinches at the sound. “Mirabel,” she begins softly, not really sure what she’s going to say next. 

Unfortunately, Mirabel interrupts her before she can say anything further. “Just try it, Dolores!” The little girl pushes her closer to the Door, not understanding why Dolores is being so reluctant. “C’mon! You’ll see! Just try it!” 

Not wanting to dash and kill all her futile hopes, Dolores hesitates briefly before opening the Door. 

The moment Dolores steps over the threshold, she notices the difference. No voices. No birds. No breathing. No footsteps. It is utter and complete silence, save for her own breathing, and it is like heaven. Dolores sighs happily and breaks into a wide grin. It’s like a great weight has lifted from her chest — like she is finally able to breathe. 

“Better?” Mirabel smiles up at her eagerly.  

It is the first real smile Bruno has seen her wear in months, and behind his walls, he can’t help but grin too. 

Dolores slowly takes the wax from her ears and pauses to listen. There is nothing so much as a peep. Her grin grows tenfold as she laughs in relief. “Sí! So much better! Oh, what a difference!”

Mirabel yelps in surprise as she is pulled into a fierce hug. 

“Gracias, Mirabel,” Dolores whispers in her ear. “You are a lifesaver!” She doesn’t know how Mirabel did it or why Casita only responded to her, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care one bit. She is too filled with relief and excitement. She can’t wait to spend her first night since she was five in utter and complete silence. 

Mirabel grins, face smushed against her prima’s dress. “No more noise?” 

Dolores squeezes her tighter. She can finally have some solitude. “No more noise. Gracias, gracias.”

Mirabel giggles. “Denada, Dolores. I’m glad I could help.”

“You’re a true miracle, Mirabel.” 

Mirabel snorts. “You’re the one who was blessed.”

They don’t hear the footsteps ascending until she’s nearly upon them. “Girls.” The cousins turn and find Alma standing at the end of the hall, eyebrow arched in confusion. “What are you doing?” 

“I was helping Dolores!” Perhaps Abuela will finally see how helpful she can be, now that she’s done this. Mirabel steps forward and excitedly begins to explain. 

“Her ears were hurting her from always hearing so much and I felt bad so I said ‘why don’t you ask Casita to sound proof your room’ and she said it doesn’t listen to her, so then I offered to ask for her and she said yes so we came up here and I asked and Casita did it, and now Dolores’ ears can finally stop hurting her and she can have a break!”

Mirabel is panting by the time she is finished and her little cheeks are flushed with excitement. She prepares herself for an onslaught of praise, but it does not come. It is only silence after, and when Mirabel looks to her Abuela, she sees a face of horror. 

Uh-oh. Bruno recognizes that look having been on the receiving end of it far too many times, and he knows this won’t be good. 

Abuela slowly approaches from afar and as she comes closer her voice gets louder. 

We were given our Gifts for a reason! 

The Miracle is ours to protect! The Encanto is ours to protect! 

We have a duty as a family to help and serve the community! 

We cannot interfere with the Miracle or what we are meant to do! 

Mirabel, for her part, does not not cry or flinch or run away, which impresses the heck out of Bruno who has done all three numerous times when faced with the wrath of his mamá. But what he sees, what she does, how his youngest sobrina reacts, is much worse. Mirabel just stands there and takes it, wilting with every verbal blow. The happiness slowly flees from her face, the excitement slowly leaks from her body.

“I… I was just trying to help,” she whispers, looking like a beaten dog, “Dolores was hurting.” 

Dolores nods her support — which is as much as she dares to do — but Alma does not hear nor see them. 

“You must the room to as it was before!” she cries. “Everything is as it should be! Nothing needs to be or should be changed!” 

Flinching, Mirabel starts to to protest, still concerned about Dolores’s ears (her bravery impresses both Bruno and Dolores) but she is cut off by Alma’s slightly hysterical, “Now, Mirabel!” 

Bruno had believed — had hoped — that by leaving he could protect her. He thought it was his only choice. But now, as Alma storms past, leaving a mute Mirabel and a frozen Dolores, he wonders if all he did was make things worse. 

After all. He has never been the hero. Disaster has always clung to him like a shadow. Misery has always remained in his wake. Why should his wrongness dissipate even when he is gone?   

Chapter Text

Ten Years Old 

She is ten when she gains a new roommate. 

It is Dolores who knows first. She wakes one morning and hears a new heartbeat. It is faint but steady and so full of life. Dolores can hardly contain herself but she holds her silence for a few hours just to make sure she is absolutely certain before she tells her parents. 

Pepa and Félix are overjoyed when given the news and they receive a thousand hugs and kisses and felicidades from the family. Soon after, the entire familia is in baby mode. The nursery is repainted and refurbished with small clothes, small toys, bright colors, etc., and the kitchen is stocked full of soft foods, sauces, formulas, purées, and more. And when the announcement is officially made to the Encanto, villagers stand in line from sun up to sun down to drop off bebé things at La Casa Madrigal.   

Bruno hears the news and silently rejoices by himself. He knows how much his hermanas adore babies and knows Pepa and Félix must be over the moon. He only wishes he could give them his good wishes in person and celebrate at their side and he is so incredibly, unbelievably tempted to do so. 

But he restrains himself. He reminds himself why he left in the first place. 

He cannot by any means abandon what he’s started. Mirabel has not yet reached the age he saw her as in the vision. He doesn’t know what he’ll do after the prophecy has come to fruition but until then the best way he can protect her and everyone else is to stay away and wait. 

The months leading up to the birth, the adults are a flurry with elation. They haven’t had a new baby in years and with Mirabel and Camilo growing so quickly, there’s been no little ones to dote on. Not to mention, another child means another Gift which Alma is swift to reassure them will come (Mirabel was a once in a lifetime, a fluke, an error) and when it does, it will help serve the Encanto and strengthen the family. 

The children, on the other hand, are a little divided. Mirabel is off-the-walls-excited for her new prima or primo. Luisa, Dolores and Isabela (who are also eager to meet the newest addition) are a tad more reserved. They remember what it was truly like having infants under Casita’s roof and while they look forward to meeting him or her, they’re silently preparing themselves for the tremendous amount of work, effort and time that comes with a newborn. 

Camilo, soon to be big brother, is just as excited as the girls, but is also a little apprehensive. If his Mamí has a chico then he will no longer be the sole male grandchild. This might prove to be a good thing. He loves his sister and his mamá and his tía and his primas, but living with seven women can be a little much sometimes. He’d love to even the odds. But at the same time, he won’t be the only boy anymore. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. What if everyone likes this new bebé more than him?

In the end, Camilo doesn’t have to worry. His hermano comes in the night and is named in the morning. Antonio. It is a fine name for a fine baby. Small, sweet, with two impossibly large eyes, Antonio enchants anyone and everyone who meets him, including his big brother. When Antonio is finally presented in a swaddle of gold, the town rejoices and the celebrations last long into the night, and when Antonio is baptized in a large silver basin, the whole Encanto has a prayer for him on their lips.  

Antonio stays in Pepa and Félix’s room for a time before he moves into the nursery with Mirabel, who fervently vows that he will be watched like a hawk. She is terribly excited to have a new primito and she can’t wait to spend time with him. But, if she’s being honest, she’s also a little nervous. She’s never roomed with an infant before. At ten years old Mirabel has had more experience with caring for children then someone twice her age might have (thanks to all the little bodies in the Encanto) but she’s never actually watched a whole baby for a whole night all by herself. 
 
Tía Pepa and Tío Félix reassure her that she can wake them if she should ever need them and Prima Dolores says she will come if she sounds like she needs assistance, but a small piece of Mirabel — the part that is still fighting to be seen and to prove her worth — wants to do this on her own. 

Thankfully, Antonio is a calm baby and he doesn’t fuss much. There are a few tears here and there, which is normal and can be expected, but for the most part he sleeps right through the night. And when he does get cranky, Mirabel is up at once, has him in her arms and calms him before it can turn into something else. 

But sometimes she doesn’t get there in time. Sometimes she isn’t fast enough. After all, she is still a little girl.

When that happens, Bruno lends a helping hand. 

He almost had a heart-attack when he first offered his aid (all he could think about was being caught) but he had watched Mirabel tend to the child selflessly all night and he knew Dolores (who was ready to spring out of bed at any given second) had been confined to her room all day with a fever. Loathing to disturb his sleeping sobrinas, Bruno decided he would assist behind the scenes as much as he could and to the best of his ability. They were children too, after all. They needed sleep as much as everyone else. 

“I’ve got him,” Bruno told the air. “You don’t have to get up. Gracias.”

Readying himself for battle, Bruno stepped out of the walls and into the nursery for the first time in years. 

“Shhh,” Bruno said as he lifted the fussy child from the crib and drew him close to his chest. Antonio’s unhappy babbles were what first caught Bruno’s attention, and Bruno know that even if he wasn’t crying yet, tears would soon follow without swift intervention. 

Antonio calmed down almost immediately when he heard Bruno’s heartbeat and with his tiny fist, he clutched Bruno’s ruana. Bruno had to blink back tears at the sudden swell of emotions as he gently rocked his sobrino. 

To think he was once so bad at holding babies. That was lifetimes ago, that memory and that man. 
 
“Hola Antonio,” Bruno whispered, voice rough and gravely from disuse. “You don’t know me, but I’m your Tío Bruno, and I’m very happy you’re finally here.”

The baby cooed and made a sudden grab for Bruno’s curls. Bruno was caught off-guard by a waterfall of memories (another man with another child in another life with another fate) as he ducked Antonio’s fingers with practiced ease. He chuckled softly and told the boy, “You really are a Madrigal, I see.” 

Bruno cradled Antonio to his chest, drinking in his fill of his nephew. He could see so much of Pepa and Félix in the child and for a moment he let himself dream of who he’d become. He pictured a fine young boy with a good heart and perhaps a cheeky tongue, much like his older hermano. He would be popular and adored and he would love his family with everything he had. He would be kind and gentle and fair, and when the time came for his ceremony, his Gift would fit him perfectly and he would flourish. 

“Be good for your parents,” Bruno whispered fondly. He had seen the bebé plenty of times from the walls but this was the first time he was holding the child, and he was already madly in love with the little man — and not even fifteen minutes in. “And give your mamá a hug for me.”

From the corner of the room Mirabel sighed in her sleep and Bruno shook himself from his reverie. 

“Sleep now,” he murmured as he gently returned Antonio to the crib who was now very still and gazed up at him solemnly. Bruno’s hand lingered on the bebé’s brow for the barest of moments as a sudden thought of despair crept in. He will never know me. 

Bruno sucked in harshly as a rush of anxiety swelled through him. He was hot, he was cold, he was floating, he was falling. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t tell if he was sitting or standing or jumping or landing — a dense veil of fog settled around him and he inhaled. 

Bruno knew this fog. It came to him often in times of distress, when everything got too loud or too much. Bruno knew he had to penetrate the veil or else he would be tempted to stay, but the calmness that came with the fog was soothing. It promised calm amidst the chaos, silence amidst the sound, a break amidst the battle. 

Through the veil, Bruno felt his hand thrust into his pocket, desperately feeling for his salt. With no one to stop him and no one to stare, he had all the time in the world to indulge in his nervous habits, letting them grow as his veil of fog grew. Bruno knew the path he was going down wasn’t a good one and wondered if one day his fears and thoughts will simply consume him and he would be lost to the fog forever. 

But that day was not today. 

Armed with a fistful of salt, Bruno only managed to stop himself seconds before tossing it over his shoulder. The urge to do so was almost too strong to resist, but a small corner of Bruno’s mind warned him of the consequences of going through with the deed. No one must know I was here, he thought sluggishly. There can’t be any evidence or trace or cause for suspicion. 

With a trembling hand, Bruno returned the salt to his pocket and shook himself free of the fog. 

If Antonio could speak, perhaps he would’ve offered some small decimal of comfort to the odd man who just comforted him. But he did not because he could not. He simply watched, wide eyed and curious, as the kind stranger gave him a watery smile before slipping away.

Mirabel stirred as the nursery’s door closed with a soft click. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and blinked blearily at her primito in his crib. 

Huh. 

She could’ve sworn she heard Antonio fussing — that’s why she woke up, after all. But here he was, silent as a mouse and seemingly happy as a clam. Throwing the covers off her legs, Mirabel climbed out of bed and went to the nursery door. She opened it softly and look left and right and left again. Nothing. The hall was empty, as could be expected in the middle of the night.

So why did she have the feeling she was being watched?

Mirabel parted her lips as if to speak out, but then she thought for a moment and snapped her mouth shut. She could’ve sworn she was going to call a name… but the name eluded her and the harder she tried to remember it, the fainter it became in her mind.

“Casita?” she whispered instead. “Is everything okay?” 

Casita ruffled the floorboards sleepily and Mirabel relaxed. Shrugging, Mirabel returned to her bed and drew the blankets over her body. 

She must have been dreaming and had woken with a random name on her lips. That was the only explanation, after all. She knew everyone in La Casa Madrigal. She wouldn’t forget one of her own family members. 

Chapter Text

Eleven Years Old

She is eleven when she truly forgets him. 

Mirabel doesn’t remember him or who he is or what he once meant to her. Years of suppressing everything and anything that had to do with the mysterious man that disappeared in the night — all talk, all questions, all memory and thought — would do that to anyone, he supposes. But still. 

It hurts. 

It hurts a lot.  

The older ones remember him. They must. They have eleven years of recollections and stories and time with him, and he with them. He was there to see Isabela off on her first day of school, to experience the highs and lows of Dolores’ pet rock phase, to help Luisa overcome her fear of the monster under her bed. He watched them grow and flourish before his very eyes and he is certain they remember him. But Isabela and Dolores, ever the dutiful daughters, dare not to speak about Bruno. Not a word, that is (not that he hears, anyway), and Luisa, eager to please, anxious to deliver, obediently follows in their steps. 

The younger two, Mirabel and Camilo, overtime, come to know nothing but a name. Bruno is but a cautionary tale, a boogieman in the night, a sour secret that is kept close and guarded well. It  matters little that they had five years with him — five years of bedtime stories and lullabies and hide-and-go-seek and piggy back rides. Time has stolen all memories of their tío. Time and silence. 

And the littlest one, Pepa’s baby boy, the newest addition, doesn’t know Bruno at all. He might have a lingering sense of being held by a sturdy embrace, but he will mistaken it for the arms of Félix or Camilo or Augustín and think nothing else of it. 

Bruno tries not to let it bother him. He really does. This is his own doing, after all. He chose to disappear. He chose to leave. It was for the best that he vanished — for the Miracle, for the family, for Mirabel, for everyone. Mirabel needed him. There wasn’t any other way. Leaving was Bruno’s choice. And he chose this. 

Didn’t he? 

Didn’t he?

(Sometimes, when the silence is too loud and the night is too long and the weight is too heavy on his chest, he can’t help but blame his madré for this. For all of it. For reducing her son to this meaningless life in the walls, for forcing her family to work their Gifts to the bone, for making something so beautiful and good into something so ragged and torn. But then the sun comes and the noise returns and the weight lifts, just a little, and he berates himself for having such wicked thoughts. His mamá is only mortal, after all, and must bear all her own crosses and scars as well).  

But the Madrigals are nothing if not resilient, and Bruno is a Madrigal through and through. He is his mother’s son, his father’s boy. When all else failed and threatened to break, his parents kept their heads up and their feet pointed forward, and Bruno will do the same. 

So he watches. And waits. His face becomes paler, his body becomes thinner, and he keeps to the shadows and listens as his family slowly forgets him over time. 

And as his family forgets, so does he. 

Oh, he still remembers his name and his favorite color and his birthday and easy things like that. But he forgets what it’s like to be kissed by the moon, to be caressed by the river, to be charmed by the cool and playful breeze of the Encanto. He forgets the feeling of hot sunlight on his shoulders, of warm sancocho in his belly, of sweet grass between his toes. He forgets what it’s like to be hugged from the heart, to laugh so fiercely you rattle your bones, to fall asleep sore from dancing in pure delight. 

Everything Bruno thinks and uses and wears and consumes is tattered and fraying and ancient and used. His food is always cold as if to remind him of what he once had, of what he gave up. His clothes hang off him as if to remind him that he doesn’t belong in these clothes, in this family, in this life. His memories come begrudgingly as if to remind him he shouldn’t summon them in the first place. 

Bruno’s eyesight has worsened too. Or bettered, depending on how one perceives it. He no longer has a need for a candle to find his way in the darkness. He no longer has to squint into the gloom. He can move with proficiency, agility, and practiced ease among the shadows, for that is what he has become. 

Bruno does have to squint in the light, however. He must be cautious when treading in the sun. Candles can never be too bright or held too near. He finds that his eyes can only tolerate the dim light of the stars and if he does face the sun the encounter leaves him with a throbbing head and stinging eyes. (The irony isn’t lost on him that while the dark used to frighten him as a little boy, it is now the light he is wary of.)

Bruno continues to tend to the cracks as the years fly past him in lonely solitude. For every crack he patches, five more appear and he feels utterly useless as he watches them grow. It is an endless battle, a hopeless fight, but he can’t stand by and do nothing as La Casa Madrigal threatens to fall. 

A second pair of hands (or four) could help him work much faster. But it is only him and his rats, and that is how it will always be, and for as fast as Bruno works, it’s never fast enough, and when he falters, he has no one to catch him. 

And when he falls, he falls hard. 

***

Ever since Bruno left the family he stopped having his visions. It was quite liberating, really, when he made that decision. After almost forty-five years of using his Gift to serve the Encanto and please his mamá, he finally mustered the courage to say no. And once he finally puts his foot down he finds he likes life a lot better when he isn’t rummaging around the future day in and day out.     

But there are costs and consequences to everything and Bruno eventually learns the consequences of suppressing his Gift. They come in the embodiment of terrible fevers and pulsing migraines that completely muddle his brain and steal all ability of rational thought. 

It is during one of these fevers when he almost gets caught. 

It is six years after Bruno left and his visions have been lashing out in the form of terrible migraines for weeks. He knows the future is angry from being contained for so long but he refuses to give in. There’s a reason why man wasn’t given foresight — the future isn’t meant to be seen. Bruno is just sneaking back to his hole behind the painting when a sudden wave of nausea overcomes him. Dizzy, he falls to his knees as red hot pain explodes in his head. 

Bruno clutches his face as green light pours out of his eyes. It pools on the ground and curls around his feet like a blanket of an emerald mist. Bruno gasps for air as bright lights dance across his vision and he thinks desperately, get back – can’t be seen – the cracks – but he doesn’t so much as crawl three inches before collapsing. 

“Bruno? Bruno?” Bruno moans as the fever grips him in its fiery clenches. Every muscle, every limb, is hot and sore and weighs a thousand pounds. 

“The cracks,” he murmurs through the thick fog that’s settled over his brain.  

“Bruno? Please hermanito,” the voice begs. “Abre los ojos. Open your eyes.” 

With great difficulty Bruno cracks one eye open and finds Julieta hunched over him, wet towel in hand. 

“Julieta?” he breathes, hardly daring to believe his eyes. 

His sister trembles slightly as she gently drapes the cool cloth across his brow. In her eyes are a hundred questions and fears. It kills him to know he has been the cause of her suffering. 

Julieta swallows harshly and manages a watery smile. “There you are. We thought we lost you.” 

“No! No, never, I’m right here.” He leans into her touch, eager to be held. 

Julieta places a tender kiss on his cheek. “You scared me,” she says hoarsely. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Her hand shakes slightly as she smoothes down his curls. “Why did you leave us? Please, Bruno, why did you go?” 

Bruno closes his eyes as guilt washes over him. He would give anything to lay his burden at someone else’s feet but he refuses that be his hermana’s. All his life, Julieta has been the familia’s backbone. When Bruno’s visions became too taxing, only Julieta knew how to bring him back. When Pepa’s storms became too intense, only Julieta knew how to calm her down. When Alma’s grief became too much, only Julieta could step in to fill her shoes so effortlessly.    

Bruno hears Julieta sigh at his silence and he hates that he’s to blame for such a sound. “Ay, Bruno, so many secrets. When did we become such masters of mystery?”

“The same time we stopped being children,” Bruno rasps. “Far too soon.” He opens his eyes as his hand finds hers and he squeezes urgently. “But I’m not going anywhere.” Now that she’s found him she will never lose him again.

“I know.” Julieta smiles sadly, and to his horror, she slowly begins to fade. “But now it is I who must leave.” 

Panicked, Bruno tries to sit up. “What? Why? I don’t understand.”

Julieta kisses him on the cheek. “Good bye, brother.” 

“Wait!” he chokes out. 

But she is already gone. 

Bruno jolts awake. He is startled to find himself safely behind the painting and when he wonders how he got here he can only think of Casita. He tries to sit up but he is far too weak and ends up flailing around on floor before giving up. Bruno can hardly lift his head it hurts so much, and he barely manages to muster the strength to whisper, “Help me, Casita,” before succumbing to darkness. 

”Bruno? Bruno?”

There are raindrops caressing his cheeks and kissing his nose. He can’t move his muscles to brush them away but he finds that he has no desire to do such a thing. 

“Despierta, Bruno. Wake up.”

Bruno groans and finally opens his eyes.   

“That feels good.” He turns his face to the sweet cool rain and lets it wash him clean of his sins. 

“Oh Bruno,” Pepa says tearfully. Twin droplets race down her cheeks and he can’t tell if they’re tears or raindrops. “You never minded my rain.”

Bruno smiles weakly. “Of course I didn’t. Your rain is part of you. How could I not love it?” 

Pepa takes his hand and clutches it to her chest. “I miss you so much, hermanito.” 

“So do I.” 

“Why did you leave, then?” 

Bruno runs his tongue over his dried and cracking lips. We don’t talk about Bruno is how their saying goes but there’s so much they just don’t know.   

Pepa’s face falls as she lets his hand fall too. “We used to tell each other everything, remember?”

He does, oh how he does. In childhood, Bruno and Pepa were partners in crimes, much like Mirabel and Camilo. There was never a prank the two of them didn’t pull, a secret the two of them didn’t share, a whisper the two of them didn’t hear. Left alone so frequently, it was no wonder they gravitated towards each other so fiercely. They were so free spirited and wild and unhinged, they shared the same thirst for adventure and mischief. But oh, how long ago that was, and looking back, Bruno can hardly recognize the people they’ve become.  

Pepa smiles bitterly. “How far away that time feels.” 

Bruno tries to push himself up, to make her understand. “I – I never meant – I never wanted—” 

“Shhhh,” she says, seeing his distress. “It’s fine. Forget it.” But he refuses to be placated. 

“Pepa,” he croaks, reaching for her, loathing that look in her eyes, knowing it was he who put it there.  

“No, it’s okay,” she says, if not a little sharply. “We all have our secrets.”  

It wasn’t because of you, he wants to say, It was never because of you. But he can’t find the words and she is pulling away. 

Pepa lifts her hand and frowns as it begins to fade. “I must go now.” 

Bruno grabs for her. “No, please—” 

The raindrops darken as thunder rumbles overhead. “Lo siento, hermanito.”

“Wait!” he croaks out. 

But she is already gone. 

Bruno wakes and finds himself still slumped in the walls and he can’t tell if it’s night or day or how much time has passed. He sits up slowly, wincing at the persistent throbbing in his skull. The world tilts and rightens itself before his eyes and he knows he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. 

Upon moving his hand he brushes against something on the floor and his fingers curl around the foreign object. It is a small dark bottle, cool to his burning touch, with a tattered label reading, medicina. Holding his breath, he unscrews the lid and swallows the contents in one gulp. His parched tongue recognizes the sweet taste as one of Julieta’s tonics and he can’t help the faint whisper of a smile as he fades back into darkness. 

“¡Ay, Brunito, what have you done?” Alma is frowning down at him and shaking her head but there is a rare look of tenderness and fondness in her eye.  

“Mamá?” Bruno croaks, and suddenly he is nine years old again and bedridden for six whole days with a terrible cold. He recalls having comforting a weeping Pepa and forgetting to change out of his wet clothes before it was too late, but he didn’t regret it back then and he doesn’t regret it now. Cold be damned, it was worth it. 

Alma wraps him up in her warm embrace and lets him bury his face in her shawl. He can count on one hand the number of times his mamá has hugged him and he never knew how much he missed her. Not Alma Madrigal, matriarch of the family, keeper of the Miracle — but simply as Alma, mother and survivor and his. 

“I’m sorry Mamá,” he says over and over. “I’m so sorry. Lo siento. I’m sorry.”

She hugs him tighter. He is too weak to lift his arms but if he could he would clutch her back with every ounce of his strength. “You have nothing to apologize for.”  

If only she knew. If only they all knew  

“Don’t go.” He wishes he could never leave her arms. “Don’t let me go.”

“My son,” Alma sighs. “My niñito. My brave little boy.” She pulls away slightly to cup his face with her wizened hands. “How my Pedro would’ve loved you.” Her eyes crinkle in sorrow, in joy. 

“Please, Mamí,” Bruno whispers. He has only seen her like this a handful of times, so open and reachable and raw. If she turns from him, if she takes up her mask, if she leaves again, it will kill him. “Don’t leave me.” 

“Oh Brunito.” Her voice is warm as honey and filled with cords of sadness. “You know I was never here.” 

“No,” he cries, for he knows what comes next. “No, no.” 

“Find me,” she says as she begins to fade. “Búscame.”

“How?” he implores. “You have hid from me my entire life.”

Alma squeezes his hand before letting go. “You need only return.”

“I can’t—” he begins desperately. Why can’t they understand this isn’t a choice he can control?

His mamá smiles. “You can, Brunito. Its time that you did. It’s time you come home.” 

“Wait!” he cries out— 

But she is already gone.

Bruno wakes up in a cold sweat, reaching for phantoms and calling for ghosts.

The next day he regains enough of his strength to stand. Using the walls for balance, he stumbles back through the labyrinthine tunnels to his rooms. It takes him far longer then he likes and he is panting up a storm when he finally reaches his destination. Once safely, inside he ignores the excited squeaks of his faithful companions and immediately collapses on his bed. He passes out from exertion almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

Several days later Bruno is almost entirely better and decides to venture back out again. He notices all the new cracks along the way and is thinking of how compensate for all the time that was lost to the fever when he stops in his tracks. There is a faint trickling of light spilling across the floor from where the painting is slightly ajar. In the center of that pool of light is a carton of glass bottles. 

Creeping closer, he sees a piece of paper tucked between the vials and with trembling hands, he picks it up and unfolds it. 

For when the future becomes to forceful. 

Bruno reads these words over and over again, eyes tracing the delicate scrawl until it has been burned into his mind.  

He had convinced himself the medicine was part of his dream. But here he is, standing and conscious and awake, with an entire carton of it. 

Somehow, somewhere, someone is looking out for him. And he has a good guess of who that person might be. He only wishes he had something to give her in return. But he has very little back here and what he does have he uses and really can’t spare. 

Thinking for a moment, he finally says, “Gracias.” It is tender and heartfelt and true, and as he slowly returns to his rooms, medicine in his arms, he is confident his message has been received.  

Chapter Text

Twelve Years Old

She is twelve when she finally gets her door and it is the cruelest gift imaginable. 

It is the eve of another familia celebration and the doors to La Casa Madrigal have been thrown open for pre-party set up. The days leading up to a celebration is always a busy time filled with so much to do, and tonight is no different. Everyone is bustling here and there and back again with arms laden with supplies and decorations and food. 

Mirabel can be seen in the kitchen, unloading fresh napkins on to the counter with a sour disposition. Everyone but her had been assigned an important task, and it was only after she begged to help when Abuela reluctantly delegated unboxing duty to her. 

Mirabel heaves a great sigh as she hauls another crate onto the counter that she’s working at. She knows every hand contributes to the finished result, but this just feels pathetic, mindlessly unboxing crates and packages while hidden away in the kitchen. And especially when she compares it to the work of the rest of her family. 

Alma is directing traffic as usual, making sure everything runs smoothly. She is the driving force of this operation, irreplaceable and incomparable. 

Luisa is helping with tasks that are too heavy for others. 

Camilo is helping with tasks that are too high for others. 

Isabela is busy growing beautiful floral arrangements and masterpieces. 

Pepa is busy watering said floral arrangements and masterpieces. 

Dolores is occupied with aiding the townsfolk in the plaza.  

Augustín is occupied with aiding Dolores aiding the townsfolk in the plaza.  

Even Julieta, who’s never not near an oven, isn’t in the kitchen tonight. Her presence is far too important to be wasted back here. 

And so that leaves Mirabel all alone in the dark, unboxing and unloading in the vacant kitchen and trying to convince herself (and failing) that she doesn’t feel as miserable as she looks. 

Mirabel

Mirabel pauses when she hears her name being called. She glances at her tío, who was kind enough (or felt bad enough) to keep her company.  

“Wasn’t me,” Tío Félix says cheerfully from his corner of the kitchen, where he’s feeding a fussy Antonio applesauce. With everyone else occupied, he’s on baby duty. 

Shaking her head, Mirabel turns back to the crates. 

But then she hears her name again. 

Mirabel

And Félix hears it too. The short man glances at his sobrina.  “Maybe it’s Camilo?” 

“It doesn’t sound like Camilo.”

Tío Félix shrugs and wipes Antonio’s mouth with a napkin. “Could be Camilo while he’s not-Camilo.” Mirabel snorts and Félix sends her a pointed look. “You should go help him. God only knows what that boy’s gotten into now.” 

Knowing her uncle is most likely right (her primo does has a tendency to find himself in the strangest of predicaments), Mirabel sighs. She knows what he’s doing. He’s trying to distract her because he knows she’s unhappy and he feels bad. 

Félix smiles encouragingly and Mirabel groans loudly, but she pushes the crate aside nevertheless. She really doesn’t feel like chasing after Camilo, but she doesn’t have any excuse not to. It not like she has anything better to do, she thinks darkly. It’s not like she’s actually needed. 

“Hurry back!” Tío Félix calls and Antonio babbles after her retreating form. 

***

The voice leads Mirabel from the warmth of the kitchen to the coolness of the courtyard, up the winding, wooden staircase, and past the endless light of glowing Doors. Mirabel is grouchy and irritable by the time she makes it past the nursery and is just about to call it quits and go back to the kitchen when a lanky, hooded figure swathed in a worn ruana emerges from the shadows. 

Mirabel steps back in surprise. Her heart hammers uncertainly in her chest as her palms begin to sweat. The stranger’s face is obscured by a low drawn hood and Mirabel is suddenly aware of how far away everyone is. 

Casita won’t let anything happen, she reassures herself. Casita will protect me. 

“What do you want?” Mirabel says loudly. She tries to make out a face but her efforts are deterred by the hood. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

Pale hands snake their way up to the fabric crowning the head. Slowly, the fingers pull down the hood, revealing a brow, two eyes, a nose, and some lips. 

“Mirabel Madrigal,” the man says quietly, “It’s been a long time.”

He throws off his hood, exposing his entire face, and Mirabel recognizes him at once. 

It is Bernardo Vega, the smith’s son, a few years Mirabel’s senior and the darling of the Encanto. With his strong jaw, kind eyes, sharp wit, it isn’t hard to understand why. During their younger years Mirabel had a terrible crush on him, but that was ages ago. Now it’s Bernardo who has a massive crush on Mirabel, according to Dolores. 

But despite being flattered by the attention, Mirabel can’t bring herself to be interested in those sorts of things right now. Not when there are more important matters to attend to. Like caring for Antonio. And proving her worth. And making the family proud. With a schedule as busy as Mirabel’s, love has no choice but to wait. 

Mirabel smoothes down her hair and tries her very best to force her face into a pleasant expression. “Bernardo. Hi. Can I help you with something?” 

Bernardo gestures in the direction of the kitchen below. “I came with my pá to help with last minute touches to the menu. But then I saw something and I thought of you. Will you come with me?” He holds a hand out to her, face open and eager and excited. “I think you need to see this.”

Mirabel stares at the outstretched palm. “I don’t understand,” she says slowly. 

“I know I’m not making much sense, but I think it’s better if I just showed you.” 

“I don’t know…” Mirabel can tell her hesitation surprises him. All the girls are in love with him and any one of them would kill for the chance to speak with him. And perhaps if he had caught her another day, Bernardo might’ve received a more willing response. Unfortunately, that day is not today.

“I need to finish unpacking the napkins and I haven’t even started on the favors yet…”

“Por favor,” Bernardo implores. “Just for a moment?” He sends her a beseeching look and Mirabel, cursing herself for being so weak, hikes up her skirts and follows him to this grand spectacle she just has to see. 

He gestures for her to cover her eyes which she does so begrudgingly before he leads her down the hall and around a corner and exclaims, “¡Tarán!”

Mirabel opens her eyes. Her heart falls from her chest and plummets to the floor. 

“Well?” Bernardo is saying. His voice is brimming with excitement. “What do you think?” 
 
Mirabel simply stares silently, sad eyes burning holes into the wood. 

“Is this some kind of trick?” she finally manages. Her throat is constricting and her hands are all sweaty and damp. She could expect this sort of stunt to be pulled by Emilio, but Bernardo? She wants to break something. She wants to shout. She wants to scream. 

“What? Dios, no!” he protests. Mirabel forces herself to look Bernardo in the eye and when she sees the honest confusion stamped across his face, the knife in her chest twists even deeper. 

Mirabel closes her eyes. She is somehow five again, buckling underneath her family’s disappointment and the Encanto’s disbelief. The wave of memories, so fresh and so strong, is almost too much to bear. 

“I was just passing by,” Bernardo is explaining when she tunes back in. “And I just happened to see it. I – I figured it was yours, since, well… anyway, I wanted to show you sooner because I thought you’d be so excited to finally get one but then I couldn’t find you so I’m glad I finally—” 

“Bernardo,” Mirabel whispers, voice trembling. “Please leave.” Everything is so loud and so large and she thinks she’s going to vomit. 

Bernardo recoils in confusion. “Are you not happy?” The smile slowly slips from his face as he takes in her expression.  

“No,” Mirabel says numbly. “I’m not.” She clenches and unclenches her jaw. “Bernardo, I appreciate you thinking of me and the gesture but – I can’t… Please, just go away.” 

His brow crinkles in bewilderment and she kind of wishes something would fall on him right now. Or her. Either of them, if it would just get her out of here. 

“But I don’t understand? I thought this would be – everyone said it would—” 

“What did everyone say?” she snaps, suddenly angry. She is seven, insecure and so frightened and still waiting for that godforsaken Door as rumors spread like poison in the town below. “What are they saying about me? What kinds of things are they saying now?”

Bernardo’s eyes widen. “Nothing! They’re not saying anything bad! We just wanted to cheer you up. I thought you might be happy…” He trails off and looks completely lost, and with good reason. This is definitely not the typical response he receives from girls. 

Mirabel pinches the bridge of her nose and breathes deeply, trying to calm herself. All she wants to do is collapse in a heap and cry. “I think you should go.” 

Bernardo blinks at her and Mirabel fights the urge to shake him by the shoulders. “I just… I wanted – I thought…”

Forgoing appearances and curtesies and manners, Mirabel turns on her heel and flees the scene, leaving Bernardo to gape at the spot where she just stood. 

***

Augustín stands outside the nursery, fist raised in a knock. How many times has he visited this room, stood before this door, listened for his children inside? 

He hesitates momentarily before letting his knuckles rap against the door. When silence follows he presses his ear to the wood and when he hears a faint groan from within, he swiftly slips inside.

Inside he finds his youngest hija flopped dramatically on the bed, face down and eagle spread. Her legs are tangled in her skirts and her blankets are rumpled and creased.

Brown eyes peek out through a curtain of messy curls and when she sees him she groans. “Papí I’m fine.” She drags herself up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I was just resting for a bit.”

Augustín sits beside her and drinks her in. How it feels like just yesterday when she was toddling around and babbling nonsense and falling asleep in his arms. Now she is older and mature and kind and wise, a beautiful person he’s so proud to call his daughter. 

“Really, I’m okay.” Mirabel musters a bright smile and it bothers Augustín that if he didn’t know what he knows, he would’ve believed it. When did his little niña become so good at pretend? 

Augustín clasps his hand together and he turns over his thoughts. He knows what he says next must be said delicately and with great care. It’s still a fragile subject, all these years later, and the last thing he needs is for Mirabel to shut herself away again. 

“I… just ran into Bernardo Vega.” 

There. That wasn’t so hard. 

Augustín glances at his daughter. “He told me everything.”

Mirabel’s poker face is impressive, but it isn’t perfect, and Augustín watches with a sinking sensation in his gut as her smile flickers. 
 
It is all the proof he needs. 

“You know you can always talk to me.” Please – for the love of God, talk to me, he implores silently. He hates when she shutters herself away like this. But as hard as he or Julieta or anyone might try, she refuses to let them in. She’s been like this since a child and the only person who could penetrate her iron shield is no longer here. 

Distant bird song slips in through the open window and Félix’s booming laughter accompanied by Antonio’s baby shrieks can be heard somewhere downstairs. 

Mirabel picks at a lose thread on her skirt and her lips pucker in thought. “He was so excited,” she says finally and Augustín almost cheers at the fact that she’s talking to him. But then he hears the following words that come out of her mouth and a wave of pure dread washes over him. 

“He likes me.” 

He likes me. 

He likes me. 

He likes me.

Augustín thinks he’s going to faint. A boy — a real life living and breathing boy — likes his little girl. His little Mirabel. Bernardo seems like a decent enough young man, but it’s not that what worries him. Augustín might be an old chap, but he too was once a teenager. He knows with liking comes affection and with affection comes kisses, and with kissing comes handholding and courting and meeting the family and marriage and babies and—

¡Ay Augustín, calm down! he can practically hear Julieta say over his internal hyperventilating. This is another conversation for another time. 

One you’ll be having with her, he responds hysterically.  

Of course, she doesn’t reply. 

One would assume a man with Isabela as his eldest would be better prepared for such a time, but Augustín thinks he could have all the daughters in the world and still not be ready for this part of the parent experience. 

Augustín! he hears. Focus! 

Right. Yes. He came here to have a talk, not freak out about potential boys taking interest in his youngest daughter. 

That’s a chat for another time. 

Augustín clears his throat and tries to rein in his anxiety as he plants a neutral expression on his face. Not that it really matters. Mirabel tilts her head, her curls falling between them like a curtain. 

“He wanted to show me,” she says in a detached voice. “And I didn’t know why, so I went with him. I don’t even know what I thought it was or what he was doing. But then, when I finally saw it, I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I thought it was a joke or a prank… or something he organized, and I couldn’t – I couldn’t – I couldn’t—” she breaks off when her voice starts to tremble and Augustín allows her the dignity to collect herself.  

“He thought it was mine, Pá.”

Augustín closes his eyes. Dios. 

“I think it’s Antonio’s,” she says quickly, as if to reassure him, or herself, he doesn’t know. “It was next to Camilo’s and it was in the right spot but Bernardo thought it was mine because it was bare, but I think he forgot that they’re always bare before the cere—” 

“Mira—” 

“…and that they randomly appear sometimes, even years before anyone gets their Gifts and when—” 

Augustín places what he hopes is a comforting hand on her arm. “Miraboo, there is no—”

“Don’t.” She closes her eyes as if she could will away the oceans of pain, and he wishes he could take it all away from her, that he could relive her of every burden. ”Please, Pá. It was just a stupid mistake. It’s okay. I’m fine,” she says with a small measure of bitterness. 

He doesn’t know what to say after that so they just sit in silence. 

Augustín feels like the worst parent in the world. He doesn’t know what to say or do to comfort his child, but it’s not exactly like they teach you how to navigate family miracles and magic candles and Giftless daughters. He thought changing diapers and puberty and boys were going to be tough, but this is so much worse. 

“I just made the whole family look bad,” Mirabel mutters. “Abuela’s going to kill me.”

Augustín shoves his hands in his pockets. “If she finds out, that is. I already spoke to the Vegas boy. I said you weren’t feeling well and he seemed rather understanding. I think you’re good so long as you– what?” he says at her scandalous look. “You think this isn’t the first time I’ve kept a secret from Abuela?”

Alma Madrigal is a woman unmatched. She scares him like no other, even Pepa’s anger is nothing like her mother’s wrath. But Augustín knew what he was marrying into when he proposed to Julieta, and he wouldn’t change anything at all. 

Well. Maybe a little. 

Mirabel gapes at her father, incredulous. “When?” 

Mirabel, age five, found after an entire night of searching passed out in a sand dune after crying herself to sleep. 

Mirabel, age three, disregarding her toys to play with smoothed pieces of green glass. 

Mirabel, age six, forgetting the new rule and accidentally mentioning Bruno’s name during bedtime. 

Mirabel, age four, excitedly describing what Bruno’s visions were actually like before bed. 

It isn’t lost on Augustín that all his daughter’s greatest joys and greatest sorrows tie back to his wife’s brother in some fashion or another. Augustín has nothing against the man, but he knew from the beginning that it was wise to keep certain things regarding Bruno and Mirabel to himself. 

Before Bruno left, Alma tolerated the pair’s unique bond at best, but now that Bruno is officially a pariah, Augustín doesn’t know how kindly she’ll look upon his daughter’s association with the man. Alma is a fuse and Bruno and Mirabel, whether they asked to be or not, seem to be her light. 

“When Isabela was still adjusting to her Gift,” Augustín says, deciding to go with a safer option. They still aren’t talking about Bruno and he’d rather not open that can of worms if it can be avoided. “There was this massive hurricane one night and she was frightened by the noise. Your mamá and I were in her room, trying our best to calm her down, when a whole bed of blue and white sundews appeared in the middle of her roses. You can imagine our surprise — especially when they started snapping at us. We almost lost our fingers when we were pulling them up.”

“And,” he continues, “that time Luisa almost broke every bone in my body when she hugged me. She’d aced a history test and was so excited that she forgot her own strength. It took a whole platter of Julieta’s empanadas to get me healed and walking again, and Luisa felt terrible for days. She was so afraid of what Abuela would do if she knew what happened. They both were.”

“But what happened wasn’t their fault!” Mirabel protests. “Luisa didn’t hurt you on purpose! Isabela was just scared of the storm. They couldn’t help what happened — they were just kids!”

Augustín has to smile at his daughter’s heaving chest and defensive posture. She has her mother’s spirit. “Sí, mi amor, I know.”

Mirabel catches herself and blushes at her outburst. Sometimes she wishes she wasn’t so easily rallied. Julieta is always so composed and collected and Mirabel wishes she was more like her. 

Mirabel readjusts her skirts and avoids her father’s eye. “But what about Dolores? She hears everything. She’ll tell Abuela about Bernardo if she hasn’t told her already.”

Augustín runs the back of his necks “I have a feeling there are some secrets Dolores doesn’t share.”

Mirabel can’t help but snort. Her prima has the loosest tongue in the Encanto. Everyone knows their secrets won’t remain secrets for long once Dolores catches wind of them. 

“Hey,” Augustín says gently, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Mirabel clenches and unclenches her hands. He wonders what she’s thinking. He wonders what she’ll do. Mirabel glances at him, her eyes so big and brown, and he’s thinking she just might share another confession with him or ask him for advice, when she musters a smile. 

His heart sinks, because just like that, the mask has returned. 

“Deal.” 

Chapter Text

Thirteen Years Old

She is thirteen when she finally discovers her gift — embroidery.   

It has been a long and tremulous journey to reach this point. Mirabel’s sure Tío Félix is still nursing a sore shin from her attempts at soccer (but is far too kind to say so) and she knows Pá’s mouth is still recovering from her scalding sancocho during her cooking phase. But despite all the trauma she put her family through, she’s finally here. 

Embroidery is a craft Mirabel can really shine at. It belongs to no one but her. Not Isabela, not Camilo, not Luisa, only Mirabel. This is her thing and it cannot be compared to anyone else. Her work cannot be overshadowed by others. Her creations cannot be overlooked in favor of another’s. 

Embroidery is a good skill, a fine skill, one that does not harm or main or bruise others. The only person Mirabel can hurt is herself, which is something she quickly learns to avoid with time and practice and many sore fingers. 

So yes. She has found her Gift, something she shines at. She is happy, and most importantly, so is the family. Embroidery is safe. No bruised elbows or skinned knees or burnt tongues. Her parents practically throw a sewing machine her way when she broaches the topic over dinner. It’s not that they’re not supportive — they truly are and have been in everything she’s tried. But they, and not just them, she suspects, are eager to be out of harms way. They haven’t forgotten everything Mirabel’s quest for talent has inflicted upon them. 

But nevertheless, that’s all in the past. She’s finally found her calling. At last, after years of waiting and watching her hermana make blossoms appear from nothing and her primo change bodies like she changes clothes. 

Mirabel is so relieved to have found something she loves and is good at. Not only does embroidery make her happy and allow her creative talents shine, but she also thinks that perhaps busying herself with this will quiet that ever persistent ache in her that still longs for a Gift, even after all these years of trying to force it back. 
 
Mirabel takes it upon herself to make small presents for La Familia Madrigal. There is nothing like producing something beautiful from a few spools of thread and an idea in her head, and she wants to share that with those she loves. She enjoys puzzling over what she thinks each family member will like, and she especially enjoys seeing their faces when she delivers them their gifts. 

Embroidered socks for Pá, sweatbands for Luisa, a yellow headscarf for Tía Pepa, a red bow for Dolores. 

Luisa might have her strength and Pepa might have her storms, but Mirabel has her own kind of magic. It lies dormant within her, mostly, but when she sketches out her designs and feeds the machine some thread, that is when it comes alive. It might not be as grand or loud or as obvious as the others’ Gifts, but it’s just as worthy, right?

Right?

Right. 

The day is calm and crisp when Mirabel decides to make another batch of gifts. She hasn’t done anything for her family in a while and she sees how stressed they all and she thinks now is a good a time as any for a little pick-me-up. She decides on miniature pillows because they symbolize relaxation and they can go anywhere and on anything. Bookshelves, chairs, beds, sofas. They’re a very versatile gift. 

Mirabel hums as she sketches out her ideas and cuts the fabric and selects the colors she will need. It is a long process, but a satisfying one at that, and when she is done she is sore from hunching over her table for so long but she is happy and cannot wait to see the smiles on her family’s faces. 

It is when everything has been cleaned and cleared and Mirabel is collecting the pillows and placing them in a box, when she pauses. 

She planned on making ten pillows (one for each family member, not including herself) but now she sees a total of eleven embroidered pillows. 

Huh. 

That’s strange.

She could’ve sworn she counted out the correct number before. Her mind most likely wandered while she was working and she must’ve accidentally made an extra pillow. 

Ah, well. Mirabel shrugs. The pillow’s already been made. There’s nothing to do about it now. She’ll just have an extra. 

“Lights Casita!” she calls as she slips into bed and Casita waves its shutters to extinguish the few candles that are still burning.   

The next morning Mirabel rises with the sun, ready to greet the day with a smile, but when she reaches for the box of pillows that she left by her bed, she finds them all the way by the door. 

“Casita?” She taps her foot as her eyebrow raises. “What is this?”

Casita clicks the floorboards innocently and Mirabel sighs. She has too much to do to be arguing with a house. 

Later, when Mirabel has passed the last pillow out, her hand reaches for that spare pillow, but it comes back empty. 

“What the—” She frowns to herself as she feels the bottom of the box. “I could’ve sworn…” Feeling foolish, she turns the box upside and shakes it. 

Nothing.

Empty. 
 
Mirabel blinks in confusion. Then she lets out a giant yawn and shrugs as if to say ‘oh well’. Today she’s miscounting and imagining pillows, tomorrow she’ll be hearing and smelling things. Perhaps she is working too hard.

Ay, she should probably get to bed. 

“Lights,” she mumbles as she falls into bed, and the room fades into darkness. “Gracias Casita, buenas noches.”

On the other side of the wall, a hooded figure crouches in darkness on bended knee. 

“Good night, kid,” he murmurs with a soft smile on his tired lips. In his weary, worn and calloused hands is an embroidered pillow that he holds as if it was the world.

“Thank you,” he tells the house. “Even though I don’t condone stealing,” he adds wryly. The irony isn’t lost on him as he stands there with pockets full of Julieta’s stolen sweets.   

Casita merely creaks happily in response. 

Chapter Text

Fourteen Years Old

She is fourteen when she has her first kiss.

It's pretty underwhelming.

There's no magic. No fireworks. It isn't at all like how it's described in the poems and the stories and the songs. It isn't a world-stopping, earth-shattering, heart racing and life-changing experience, and there sure aren't any epiphanies or euphoric bursts of love or light.

Just a lot of teeth and bumping and fumbling on both ends.

It had been Juan's idea, the seamstress's boy. He'd approached her nervously on Día de las Velitas, The Day of the Little Candles, and confessed that he liked her

That night whole town had been celebrating in the plaza. The sun had just set but the night was already illuminated with the light of hundreds of little flames sprinkled throughout the Encanto. Upon windowsills, front steps, door frames, balconies, terraces and porches, candles have been lit and placed with care.

With everyone occupied, it was easy for Mirabel and Juan to steal away for some privacy in one of Casita's shadowy corners.

At first, Mirabel had been excited because she was pretty sure she knew what was coming. A lot of time has passed since her run in with Bernardo. Now she's interested in young love and first kisses and wants to experience all that stuff for herself.

But then it actually happened. Juan kissed her without warning. She was happy for all of two seconds, and now she is seriously regretting leaving the party.

Juan has breath that smells like fish and Mirabel crinkles her nose when it wafts all over her.

She is so incredibly uncomfortable right now.

Mirabel's seen her parents and her tía and tío kiss plenty of times, but this is just different. It's foreign and weird. Spit is going everywhere, they're both panting like they just ran a marathon, and they don't know where to put their hands so he rests his palms on her hips and she lets her arms dangle stiffly at her sides.

Be excited, she tells herself. Everyone's excited when they have their first kiss. She remembers having to hear all about Isabela's fantastical experience, and that was when Isabela had already decided that they weren't speaking. (They went back to not speaking as soon as Isabela had finished recounting every last godforsaken detail and had flounced off to her next victim.)

Mirabel remembers Camilo's first kiss, how it had been with some girl he's had a crush on forever after he walked her home from school. He was so giddy when he told her that he couldn't stop changing into different people.

She remembers Luisa's first kiss, how it had been with a fishermen's apprentice. He had to use a stool to reach her lips, Luisa had said with a big blush on her face.

She remembers Dolores' first kiss, how it had been with the school master's dreamy son. The aftermath hadn't gone too well. He yelled in excitement, right in Dolores' ear, but she was still happy with the experience.

The way Mirabel's cousins and sisters described kissing you'd think the world could be ending and it wouldn't have mattered, kissing was that good.

But either they were lying or Mirabel isn't doing it right, because kissing, as she's finding, isn't that amazing.

Something wet and slimy prods her lips and Mirabel jumps about a foot in the air.

"Sorry." Juan smiles down at her sheepishly as he retracts his tongue and she almost retches right there and then.

Juan goes back in for more and Mirabel reluctantly complies. A few minutes later she hears a noise and pulls away, beyond grateful to have an excuse to finally end this horror show.

"What—"

Mirabel holds up a finger to her lips and they shrink back as a woman with a candle comes into view.

Mamá?

"What's your mother doing?" Mirabel shushes Juan again. Without letting Julieta see them, Mirabel and Juan follow her up the stairs and to the Door that's been off limits for forever.

Bruno's Door.

It's all dark and faded, the wood is slightly rotten and dull, the steps leading up to it are coated in grime and dust, and it hurts Mirabel's head to look at it for too long.

"Woah… what is that?" Juan whispers. Mirabel ignores him and watches as Julieta places her candle at the foot of the stairs.

She kneels and tucks her skirts around her and stares at the Door for a very long time. She wonder how they've gotten to this point, how they could've prevented this from happening, how and when the Gift became less of a blessing and more of a curse.

Ay, Bruno. Every day I think of you and every day you're still gone. I pray for a sign that'll let us know you're okay, but it's been nine years and I still have yet to receive one. If there is a God up there He is the cruelest to keep you from us.

They had been such happy children. What changed?

Everything.

She and Pepa have never spoken about his absence, but they both feel it in different ways. It isn't the same without him.

Julieta touches her fingers to her lips, feeling the frown pinned to her mouth. Before she met Augustín, it was always Bruno who was lightning her up. He made it his personal mission to make her laugh or smile, he'd even recruit Pepa's help from time to time.

You shouldn't be so serious all the time, he would say. Let us help you shoulder the burden.

"Wherever you might be," Julieta croaks, and Mirabel thinks that she has never heard her mamá sound so tired before, "I hope that you're happy. I hope that you're free."

Julieta swipes away a stray tear. She refuses to believe that he's dead, even after all these years, even with all the evidence adding up.

She murmurs a prayer with a bowed head before gathering her skirts and standing. Julieta gives the Door one last lingering look before hurrying away.

Juan steps out of the shadows. "What was that all about?"

Mirabel follows him and together they watch as Julieta's candle flickers in the dark.

"That's my tío's Door." Mirabel wishes she could tell him more but there's nothing else to say. She hardly knows anything about the man, she has no memories of him or when he was still here. It's like... her mind has thrown up a wall to block out all memories of her younger years.

Juan's eyes light up in recognition. "Oh, you mean Bad Luck Bruno? My parents told me about him. Apparently he was some crazy old seer who was always causing bad things to happen, or something. I don't know a whole lot, though."

You know more then I do , Mirabel thinks gloomily. It fills her with sadness that strangers know more about her uncle then her, but the family's forbidden all talk of Bruno for as long as she can remember.

Mirabel wishes it wasn't this way. She sees how much sadness his disappearance causes her mamá and tía, even after all this time, and even though she doesn't know what transpired all those years ago, she wonders if things could've gone a different way.

But the past is the past and she can't change that. Maybe if she had a Gift she could, but she doesn't and it's not like that would even—

No, she tells herself firmly. Stop being so depressing. I'm fine. She swore she'd stop thinking like that.

The arrival of another family member pulls Mirabel from her reverie and Mirabel and Juan shrink back into the shadows.

Pepa isn't surprised when she sees that a candle has already been left by the Door.

"You were always a little menace," she mutters as she lights her own, but her words have no bite. The cloud above her head is gray and sad and a light mist hugs her shoulders tight. "I always told you so. But I never… I wish…"

Pepa's cloud starts to rumble and she isn't quick enough to wave it away before the drizzle starts. Before she met Félix, it was always Bruno who was shooing off her clouds. He would chase away her sadness or sit in it with her, getting drenched and not caring in the slightest.

Your rain is part of you, he would say. How could I not love it?

Pepa stifles a sob.

At first glance it might've seem like Julieta was the glue that held the Madrigal Triplets together, but it was really Bruno. Bruno and his bad jokes and silly faces and love for theater and horrible timing.

Sometimes Pepa was too peppy for Julieta and sometimes Julieta was too serious for Pepa. Pepa was always reacting and Julieta was always cleaning up her messes. But Bruno helped balance them out. He was both mischievous and serious, soothing and encouraging, supportive and kind. He was their anchor, their pillar to lean on. He handled both their personalities with ease, and Pepa wishes they could've done the same for him.

"I hope you know we miss you. Me, Julieta, Mamá … I know she regrets what she said to you. She'd never want..."

Pepa snaps her mouth shut, unable to bring herself to repeat the awful things that were said that night.

If you leave this house you're dead to me!

I wish I was dead!

They were all frazzled and frantic and frightened from Mirabel's ceremony, but it took Pepa months to forgive Alma for saying such a thing and even longer to forgive Bruno for vanishing without a word.

Pepa opens her mouth and looks like she wants to say more, but then someone shouts, "Pepa! It's starting!" and she hurries away.

"Your family is so weird," Juan says when they're alone again.

Mirabel steps out of the shadows. The sour disappointment of her first kiss is gone and in its place is a strange, hollow feeling.

"Yeah," she says softly as the twin candles twinkle in front of Bruno's Door. "We are."

Those two little flames are bright and strong, but not bright enough to fill up the space with light. How brilliant would this place be with three?

In that moment, she swears she hears something. It's… it's almost like a person's soft breaths, or the sound of falling sand. But when she holds her breath and strains her ears, all she hears is silence.

She feels Juan staring at her. When she doesn't make to engage with him, he awkwardly clears his throat. "Well… this was fun, but I got to go…" Receiving no response, he shrugs. "Okay, so, see ya."

Mirabel pays him little attention as he dashes off. With trembling fingers she lights her own candle and rests it on the ground with her mamá's and tía's.

For all her sisters' faults and fights, she could never imagine life without them. Even Isabela, though Mirabel would rather die then admit that. But what Julieta, Pepa and Bruno had was surely greater then any typical sibling relationship. They are triplets, after all. It must be so strange to have a piece of you missing. She doesn't know how Julieta and Pepa manage. They are an unfinished painting, an incomplete machine working without all its parts.

Mirabel places her hand on the cold, stone wall and feeling a little foolish, she hears herself say, "I don't know you, Tío Bruno… but I wish I did. I wish you didn't disappear. I wonder what you were like. If you were everything they say you are, if we would've gotten along or not. I… I just hope you're okay," she adds shyly.

***

Cloaked in darkness and shadows, Bruno stands with an unlit candle in his worn and weary hands and makes his own wish.

For her, he hopes she finds all the answers to the questions she seeks and peace in the unknown.

For her, he hopes she will never stop loving the world and let the world love her a little in return.

For her, he hopes she has the skills to take on the battles, and the wisdom to know when words can be used instead of weapons.

For her, he hopes she'll be able to look at herself one day and see herself, not some distorted version or a make believe mask that belongs to someone else, but just her . Mirabel. He hopes she'll be able to see herself and like what she sees. Perhaps if she can one day find herself, he can too.

And for himself, Bruno hopes he will never lose faith. It has wavered and flickered so many times over these long, lonely years, but his love for his family has kept his determination alive.

He hopes his love never runs dry.

A tiny squeak brings him back and Bruno smiles sadly at his fury friend.

"I know," he tells the rat perched on his shoulder, "They all have to grow up sometime."

Bruno places his hand on the other side of the wall and watches as she walks away.

Chapter Text

Fifteen Years Old: Part One

She is fifteen when she meets him.

Bad Luck Bruno

Bruno the Broken

Bruno the Harbinger

Bruno the Seer

Bruno the Brother

Bruno the Missing

Bruno the Uncle

Bruno Madrigal

So many names, so many faces, so many aliases, just one man.

Bruno is nothing like she'd expect. He is soft spoken and awkward, jittery and fumbling, introverted and anxious, and apparently some sort of ageless ninja, she learns, as she chases him in the walls.

He mumbles a lot, talks to himself in low tones, throws salt as if it had mystical qualities, and keeps the company of rats and shadows. He's pale and thin with sunken eyes and shallow cheeks. He looks like he hasn’t seen the wide open sky in years and sounds like he hasn’t talked to another human being for even longer.

Bruno's also short, which Mirabel notes with a hint of irony. It’s not like the Madrigals are giants. Julieta and Pepa aren’t that tall, nor is Alma. But Camilo led Mirabel to believe their tío was some massive giant, while in reality Bruno is practically a midget, all compact and small like her.

It’s so strange. This man is a stranger, yet he feels so familiar. Mirabel doesn’t know him at all, yet she feels completely safe in his presence. It’s like he knows all her secrets without her telling him, and she knows they're safe in his care.

Or maybe all the sense was knocked out of her head when she did those crazy escape stunts in his vision cave...

Mirabel is excited when she finds Bruno — after she gets over the fright of almost falling through the floor and dying, of course.

Then her excitement bleeds into confusion.

Why is he here? 

Has he been in here all this time? 

Why would one subject themselves to such a life? 

She doesn’t understand, but she wants to. She has so many questions, thousands upon thousands. They beat against her skull like frantic wings of a butterfly, fighting to be set free from her lips.

Mirabel follows Bruno through the walls and he reluctantly lets her into his world, into his life, where no other has tread for so very long.

She thinks, this isn’t the Bruno I know when he demonstrates his acting skills and introduces her to his rats and shows her his telenovela stage. The Bruno that haunts the Encanto is tall and angry, devilish and deviant, terrible, troublesome, and traitorous, with eyes like pits of fire. But Mirabel is quick to realize that she doesn’t know Bruno at all.

Neither do they. Not anymore.

Did they ever? 

"My Gift wasn’t helping the family," he says, "but I love my family, you know?"

She does. Far too well. She would give eye and tooth for her family, even if she doesn’t know if they'd do the same.

It’s ironic, she thinks numbly as she traces his painted plate and peers into the kitchen through his crack in the wall, that our greatest source of pain is our greatest source of love. 

Love is supposed to be unconditional, but everything has a price. Perhaps they are cursed to give the love they will never receive, to forever live on the outskirts and the sidelines, in the shadows and on the peripheral.

Mirabel asks Bruno about the vision, hoping against all hope that he'll give her an answer. She figures if anyone should know what a magical prophecy means it would be the man who relayed it, right? (She knows one should never put all their eggs in one basket, but she can't help it. A single word from him would silence the relentless tune of a lifetime of doubts that beat in her head.)

"I can't tell you... because I don't know," he admits, and a cold wave washes over her.

He's as clueless as the rest of them.

All dreams of fixing the family, saving the miracle, helping the Encanto, proving she's worth something to this family, fly from Mirabel's mind. Hopeless again, she plunges into despair.

She tries to maintain her composure, to allow herself the dignity of not having an emotional break down on the floor in front of her uncle — the uncle who she just met — but underneath her crumbling mask she wilts like a bird without wings.

And then Bruno tells her why he left. The true reason, the reason that no one ever talks about, the reason that everyone always avoids, the reason that she suspects no one truly knows.

"I knew how it was gonna look," he says. "I knew what everyone would think because I’m Bruno and everyone always assumes the worst. So…"

Mirabel touches the vision with paper soft fingers, tracing the jagged edges.

And then it dawns on her.

She understands.

"You left... to protect me."

His silence is deafening.

Her guilt is overwhelming.

Mirabel would be lying if she hasn't wondered, like the rest of the family, why Bruno left. As the story goes, one day he was here and the next he was gone. Some people say his Gift grew too unpredictable and be was forced to flee for the safety of the Encanto. Others say he had a falling out with the family. And others still suggest that he simply grew bored of wreaking havoc on the same old people and left in search of new innocents to terrorize.

Mirabel knows to take town gossip with a grain of salt, but never in a million years would she have guessed he left because of her.

Guilt blossoms fresh in her chest. She is why he fled, why he's been reduced to this little life behind walls, why his family has all but banished him in name. It was her fault all along. How can she be the cause of so much suffering?

But Bruno is talking again and Mirabel is being ushered into the hallway before she can even begin to process everything that just happened.

When she does, she has an idea.

***

Bruno gets the strangest sense of déjà vu when his sobrina begs him for a vision. For a split second he is brought back to that long ago day when she saw his vision for the first time.

Tío Bruno, that was the super coolest thing ever — is that your Gift? Can I see another? Can you read my future?

Mirabel had climbed all those stairs in his room by herself, giving him severe agida. It had taken a lot of pleading and puppy dog eyes on her part to convince Bruno to let her stay.

Someday, mi chiquita, when we are both ready, I shall show you the world.

Does she know how much he loves her, Bruno wonders, as he reluctantly leads her out of the portrait hole. Ten years ago he swore off of visions, but a little begging from her and he folds at once. He really shouldn't be surprised, He has always been a weak man when it comes to his hermanas’ children. Especially Mirabel. He knows he’d give her a thousand predictions and prophecies if she only asked.

The walk to Antonio’s room is silent. Bruno keeps one eye on the boy, marveling at how much he’s grown, and another eye on the rest of the house. Bruno's entire body is taunt like a bowstring pulled tight. His anxiety rears it's eager head as he runs through all the horrible scenarios that could unfold (running into someone, namely), but luck is on their side (Bruno wants to snort, luck has never been on his side) and they encounter nobody along the way. Still, he breathes a sigh of relief when they make it safety behind Antonio’s door.

It feels good to have a vision again. It is surprisingly easy considering it’s been ten years since he’s last done this and he's nervous as hell. But summoning his visions is like riding a bike, in the sense that he can do it even after a decade of no practice.

Bruno's whole body sighs in relief when the vision begins. All the pent up magic he's contained over the years is finally being released, and his Gift has never felt happier and more healthy. He is careful to keep a firm hold on it, though. The last thing he needs is for his magic to lash out in unpredictable ways after being denied for so long.

Bruno watches Mirabel closely, judging her reaction. He's certain she's forgotten the hundreds of visions he showed her as a niñita and he wants to see how she’ll react to his Gift now, anew.

Will she shy away? Run away? Scream? Faint?

Grim, he braces himself for the worst case.

Just like the very first time Mirabel saw his vision, she doesn’t blink. She doesn’t cower. She doesn’t shudder and leave. She opens her eyes and looks even deeper, and pulls him with her as she searches the green sand herself.

And it makes his heart soar. That faint, familiar flicker rekindles in his chest, the hope that perhaps this is a sign that he is meant to share this with her. Perhaps they are meant to do this together...

Mirabel isn’t too thrilled when she learns the key to their family's fate is a hug, a hug with Isabela. Her shriek of outrage has never reminded him more or made him long for his youth. Ah, to be fifteen again and have petty stupid squabbles with his sisters.

She does love you, Bruno wants to tell his niece, Even if she doesn’t show it. Even if she doesn't say so. But he refrains from actually speaking. Some things are meant to be said and some things are meant to be left alone and learned in due time.

They decide that Mirabel should hug Isabela as soon as possible, but they agree they should reconvene in his walls before that happens. On the short walk back they see more cracks spanning the floors and walls and at one point they hear yelling from downstairs, and they feel powerful gusts of wind and snow. It's undeniable now, even for Alma. The house and its inhabitants are breaking apart.

Bruno grimaces as they’re hit in the face with a cluster of wayward snowflakes. Pepa must be mad. She only snows when she’s truly distraught.

"I've never heard the family so upset before," Mirabel says as they climb through the portrait. She rubs her bare arms as if to ward off a chill and Bruno has the sudden urge to offer his ruana. She was always cold as a child and he'd often tuck her under his poncho to keep her warm. But Bruno refrains from doing so. To her, they just met and he doesn't want to seem weird. Weirder then he already seems, that is.

"You should've heard them when they were trying to figure out when to feed Isabela as a baby," Bruno says. "No one could remember who gave her her last bottle."

There had nearly been war in La Casa Madrigal that day. Everyone had been exhausted from caring for two new fussy infants, memories were short and tempers were even shorter. They finally concluded that Pepa had fed Isabela last and it was time for another meal so a bottle was whipped up immediately. But the journey to that conclusion was a long and perilous one indeed and ended with snow drifts as high as palm trees.

Mirabel manages a smile. How many stories, she wonders, does he have to share? Would he be willing to share them with her? Sometimes she feels like she knows so little about this family, about herself.

When they cross the threshold of his room Bruno lets out a cry, startling Mirabel, and staggers about like a drunkard, clutching his face. He manages to sink into his chair before his head explodes with pain.

No no, not now, anytime but now. 

Mirabel drops to her knees, hovering nervously before Bruno as he withers in pain.

“Tío Bruno, are you okay – what happened?”

Is this the candle's doing, she wonders frantically as he gripes his head. Luisa felt weak when the magic faltered. Is that what's happening to Bruno? Mirabel's instincts urge her to do something, to help him, but she has no idea where to even begin.

With a sharp intake of breath, Bruno's eyes fly open.

Mirabel gasps.

Green smoke pours out of his sockets. It pools on the ground and curls around their feet like a blanket of an emerald mist.

Bruno gasps for air as bright lights dance across his vision. "Under… the… table…” he forces out between clenched teeth, “glass bottle…” Shaking herself, Mirabel runs to where the medicine is stored and brings back the tonic.

She guides his trembling hands around the smooth glass and with her help he downs the bottle’s contents in one swig. She can't stop staring at his eyes. They glowed when he was channeling his magic into a vision, but that was controlled and collected. This feels frenzied and dangerous and wrong.

Bruno drops the bottle and it rolls across the ground, sending a few rats scattering across the floor. Neither move to pick it up.

His brow is feverish to the touch. She wants to call for her mamá, but Bruno shakes his head no when she suggests the idea.

So instead Mirabel sits with her tío as he shudders and shakes, waiting patiently until he returns.

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice hoarse and raspy. His eyes are weary and cloudy but at least they're a normal color again. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Mirabel wets her lips, unsure of what that was, unsure of what to say. “What was that?” she says at last.

Bruno shrugs casually, as if he wasn’t just withering in agony minutes before. “My Gift can be revengeful when I use it too much or too little. It's always been like that.”

Her face drops. "Oh... that's awful."

Bruno waves her off. "Don’t be. I'm better now." He clears his throat, completely embarrassed and eager to move on. "Now, uh, don't we have a sister to hug? You - we - we should probably get going on that. Early bird catches the worm, right?"

Bruno doesn't look like he's in any shape to be moving anytime soon, but Mirabel doesn't say so. He has a stubborn streak in him, just like her, and she suspects trying to get him to rest will be futile. Instead, Mirabel extends her hand and helps him out of his chair, accidentally bumping into a box on a nearby table and knocking it to the ground.

"Dios – I’m so sorry—" She drops to her knees and immediately starts picking up the spilled contents, rapidly apologizing for her clumsiness.

When she sees one object in particular, she freezes.

A small pillow, handmade, self sewn and embroidered.

Those stitches, that pattern. 

She picks it up and runs a hand over the pillow.

“I made this.”

A piece of paper catches her attention. Stiff fingers reach for it. It's a childish drawing of a little girl and a man riding a giant green butterfly.

The girl is wearing green glasses. The man is wearing a green ruana. It's titled, Teo Brunow and Mirabel's Magikul Aventer. 

“I made this too.”

Bruno watches as his sobrina picks through the rest of the memorabilia. A pressed flower from one of their afternoon picnics down by the river. Old vision glass he kept in his pocket in case she wanted it. A small bow she insisted he wear in his hair so they could be matching. A black and white photograph of him holding her during her baptism. A faded letter she wrote to Ratón Pérez after losing her first tooth.

Mirabel's face has gone soft as she takes it all in. Bits of remembrance, scattered memories. She compiles the memorabilia in a neat clump and looks at it as if it was worth a thousand pesos.

“What is this?” she says as she touches the vision glass in frustration. She feels like she should know what they are, what they mean, because even though she doesn’t know their value, she knows they must have purpose.

Bruno wishes he could explain each and every keepsake and the story behind every object.

But now isn’t the time to delve into all that. She has a family to help, a miracle to save, a hermana to hug. And once she does that, maybe then he’ll tell her what they once shared, who he once was to her, who she still is to him.

Chapter Text

Fifteen Years Old: Part Two

She is fifteen when she remembers him.

She has finally saved the Miracle, has reunited the family, has resurrected La Casa Madrigal to its formal state.

She is a hero to many, a Gift to all, and as she approaches the door, he makes sure to tell her so.

You’re the real Gift, kid.

The journey has been weary and winding and long, but they are finally here and he is so, so proud of her.

So proud he doesn’t even have the words.

The weeks after Casita’s restoration are filled with changes.

Bruno moves out of the walls and back into the house, into the family. It takes a long time. He spends days just adjusting to it all, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the light, letting his heart grow accustomed to the love. It has been so long he's nearly forgotten what it's like, to be not just a shadow, a spectator, but a subject.

The Madrigals continue their daily tradition of beginning and ending their days together with a meal. Even when La Casa Madrigal was in the throes of repairs, when the family was scattered across the Encanto in various homes and housing.

We insist, the villagers had said. Let us help you as you've helped us. Por favor. It would be our pleasure.

Bruno joins these meals. Eventually. He hangs back at first, he's so hesitant and unsure and overwhelmed, but Mirabel is right there to encourage him and remind him that he belongs in this family as much as anyone else. She's the same heart attack of a child who'd barge into his room and demand he'd join her on adventures, Bruno thinks fondly. With her support, ten years later, he finally takes his place at the table.

When Bruno slowly renters the familia, he takes his time to meet each and every one of them anew. Reinserting himself is most definitely a weird feeling and it'll take some time for him to be completely comfortable with it, to shed the habits he acquired as a hermit and a shadow, but that's alright. All they have is time.

***

He laughs with Dolores over shared secrets and family gossip, turns out living in the walls does have its benefits, and he thanks her for keeping his secret all these years.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” he wonders aloud.

Dolores thinks for a moment. “I was scared at first,” she admits. “There was so much… noise, when you left. So much disruption. I didn’t even know where to begin. I was only eleven and I didn’t want to add to that, I didn't want to make anyone more upset and I didn’t know if you were coming back. But when I realized you planned to stay hidden, well…” She trails off in thought before she shrugs. “I figured you would come back when the time was right.”

How is she so wise?

“Dolores…” Bruno reaches out as if to touch her shoulder but hesitates at the last second. He can’t imagine the burden his faded presence put upon her young shoulders and his head fills with guilt at the knowledge. “I am… so sorry you had to keep my secret to yourself all those years.”

Dolores rests a gentle hand on his arm. “And I am sorry you had to be by yourself, all those years.”

“Gracias." He smiles and it’s a little sad. “But I’m not anymore.”

“That’s true.” Dolores loops her arm through his and grins at her tio. “You’re not.”

***

He visits the river with Luisa where they skip stones and reminisce about the past and put all thoughts of work and duty from their minds.

“Do you remember the last time we visited these waters?” he asks. “You listened when I called you away from the bank but your sister almost drowned.”

“Yes tío.” Luisa smiles fondly. “I remember that day well. You threw so much salt I thought it was snowing.”

Bruno’s cheeks burn as he laughs. “Yeah, well, I’ll admit, I was a little wound up. Your sister almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Almost?” Luisa snorts loudly and bumps him gently with her fist — which still hurts, but he doesn’t mention it. “I thought she did.”

Bruno chuckles deeply. It feels so good to laugh with someone. “But she didn’t. She was safe, and you helped me calm her afterwards.”

Now it is Luisa who blushes. “With a stone, I remember. I found it on the ground. It was silly of me.”

“It was sweet,” Bruno corrects, “and helpful. And I never did thank you for it. For any of it. Thank you."

Luisa flushes. “Don’t worry about it,” she mumbles, and they turn back to the river.

***

He officially meets Antonio and thanks the boy for offering his room for the prophecy. Bruno also meets Antonio’s furry friends and orchestrates play dates with them and his rats.

“Señorita Lucia says she wants a pay raise,” Antonio informs him. “Three pieces of cheese is not enough to sustain a rat through a full two hour performance, plus rehearsals, tech, blocking and script memorizing, she says.”

Bruno blinks at the little boy. “Oh,” he says intelligently.

They watch Señorita Lucia nibble on a wheel of cheese and he asks, “Is there anything else they want to tell me?”

“Señor Andres doesn’t like his wig,” Antonio says at once. “It’s too scratchy on his head.”

“Noted.”

“Señor Miranda needs better music to work with.”

“Okay.”

“And Señorita Maria says she thinks Ariana should end up with Javier and leave Alonso behind in the dust.”

Bruno’s grin is so wide that his face hurts. “Got it.”

***

He shares his telenovelas with Camilo and all his best jokes and the wild stories of his youth from when he was a younger, freer man.

“You’re so different from what I imagined,” Camilo says bashfully.

Bruno peers at him over a script. “What, I’m not seven feet tall and covered in rats?”

“You heard?”

“Kind of hard not to.”

Camilo hides behind his hands. “I’m sorry about that… are you mad?”

Bruno merely chuckles. “Nah, I'm not. I was quite the trouble maker myself, you know. Just ask your poor mamá.”

“Why, what happened?” Camilo shuffles forward with an eager expression. “The only story I’ve heard is the wedding!"

Bruno rolls his eyes and makes himself comfortable. “Ah, where to begin? We were fifteen and Pepa was getting ready for her first date. Abuela had given her about a thousand warnings so she was incredibly nervous, and Tía Julieta and I were just trying to help her calm down…”

***

He admires Isabela’s new cacti and colors and listens to her plans of updating the Encanto’s gardens. And when it’s just them, Bruno thanks her for protecting Mirabel that day in the school yard all those years ago, for being there when others could not.

Isabela’s eyes widen. It’s clear he’s brought back a forgotten memory. “You were there?”

Bruno shakes his head. “I wasn’t, I’m sorry.”

“But how…” she trails off, brow furrowing, lost in thought. “I’ve never told a soul about that day.”

He smiles. “Mirabel talked to herself a lot as a kid.”

“She still does,” Isabela snorts. She looks at him and her expression is almost bashful. “Does… does she remember that day as well?”

Bruno shakes his head apologetically. Even though Mirabel might’ve forgotten what Isabela did for her, he certainly has not.

"I never hated her. I think I was more jealous then anything. I was stuck being perfect and she didn't have to be anything."

"Isabela," Bruno says softly, and he waits for her to look at him. "I know."

***

He catches up with Félix and Augustín, learning all about the highs and lows of fatherhood and the married life and everything that happened when he was gone. Augustín somehow winds up sporting a new batch of bruises and the kitchen becomes somewhat on fire (they’ll have to answer to Julieta tomorrow for that), but they have a good laugh about it and a small weight lifts from Bruno’s chest.

“We might not be the closest,” Fèlix sobs at three in the morning and well into his wine, "But we’re still family and we missed you so much when you were gone.”

“Sí!" Grinning, Augustín raises a cup to a highly amused and greatly embarrassed Bruno who hasn’t and isn't planning on touching his own drink. "It’s good to have you back, brother.”

“Gracias, both you of you,” Bruno says sincerely as he passes a handkerchief to Félix, who uses it to passionately blow his nose. “It’s good to be back.”

And when Félix finally stumbles off to bed, Augustín pulls Bruno aside. "Thank you,” he says solemnly. "Thank you for looking out for my daughter. For being there when I could not.”

"Por favor, there's need to thank me," Bruno says, embarrassed. "That was a long time ago. I didn’t mind helping.”

"Sí,” Augustín nods. “And yet, I am. Thanking you. For then, and for now. Those years were the best years of her life. The whole world revolved around Tío Bruno and everything was still good and bright because of you."

Bruno bites his lip, speechless, for how do you respond to that? "You... didn’t mind us spending so much time together?”

Augustín would be lying if he said it hadn’t hurt to see the strong bond between Mirabel and Bruno. He has a wonderful relationship with his hija, yes, but it just isn’t the same as what she and Bruno shared. Shares. From birth it was always Bruno she sought. Bruno’s hugs, Bruno’s stories, Bruno’s songs, Bruno's presence. She was more Bruno’s then Augustín’s if he’s being completely honest, and that did feel a little funny. Does.

But whatever feelings Augustín did or does harbor, he pushes aside, for he's seen how much Bruno has made Mirabel blossom. The man was good with her. For her. He could give her time, energy and attention Augustín simply didn’t have after running around after Luisa and Isabela. Bruno could read his youngest in ways even Augustín and Julieta could not. He could ask her to do things and tell him things she'd refuse to if it was anyone else, and only he could soothe her at her scariest or saddest or unhappiest moments.

“A little — here and there,” Augustín admits. “It couldn’t be helped. For some reason she let you in when she wouldn't let the rest of us, and that did hurt Julieta and I a little."

Bruno wilts at this. But Augustín puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm happy that she did, though. Let you in. You were able to help her in ways none of us could, and I’m grateful you were there for her, again and again. Bruno, gracias. You were what she needed."

"I would do it all in a heartbeat," Bruno says at once, "I love your daughter. More then anything."

More then words can describe. 

"But you have one thing wrong," Bruno adds before they part.

Augustín arches a brow.

"She was the one who helped me."

***

He takes walks with his madré, whom he can’t remember when he last hugged, save for that day at the river. Alma is both similar and different from when he left. She is still severe and solemn and a little closed off, but her eyes are less guarded and her love is more free. They let themselves speak of things they have never spoken about. The responsibility of the Miracle, the pride and duty that comes with it and what those words mean to them both. The burden of his Gift, how truly cumbersome it can be and what they can do to alleviate it. The well being of the Encanto, how their family can best continue to serve the community without working themselves to the bone.

And most importantly, they speak of his father.

“He always took his coffee after dinner, did you know?”

“He was horrible at dancing but he loved it, did you know?”

“He was convinced he saw La Llorona once, did you know?”

Bruno finds, over and over again, that he doesn’t know. In all his fifty years on this earth, he has never truly known either of his parents. Partially because his mother had made herself unknowable behind her walls, and partially because he never tried to breach then.

“Tell me more,” he says again and again, and with a sad smile, Alma complies.

It is a small step, but a step all the same. Months ago she refused to even talk about Pedro, and now she is spilling his secrets. Slowly, and a bit hesitantly, but it’s progress, it’s hope, and it is all Bruno can really ask for.

***

He spends whole afternoons with his hermanas, where they take turns updating each other on their lives, their children, their spouses and themselves. Julieta brings a basket brimming with his favorite foods and Pepa comes with arms full of soft blankets that they spread out under the shade. They sit and talk for hours. They tell him things, he confesses more, they speak of their secrets, he shares his own. Stories upon stories, tales upon tales.

It isn't always pretty or happy for fun. The first afternoon picnic was awkward and consisted of a hurricane, a confrontation and several shed tears.

You left without a warning! 

I wanted to — I didn't have a choice. 

All those years, hermanito! All that time.

We were worried sick. We didn't know if we'd wake up one day and hear that you died. 

Lo siento. I never wanted to hurt you two or the family. 

You could never hurt this family, Bruno, it is us who should be apologizing. You were always there for our darkest times and when you needed us, we let you down. 

We missed you so much, hermanito. 

I missed you too. Both of you. Every day. 

I just... I don't understand why you left. 

There are some things they will never understand. This he knows. How could they? But even though it saddens him, he makes his peace with the thought. After all, no matter how close they are, there are things about them he too will never understand. That is simply the fact of life. Everyone must have their turn at life and at some point they must walk it alone.

But it's good to finally talk about such things, even if they're painful. How else will they heal and move on?

The triplets gain a sense of relief after that first afternoon. They reconcile and apologize and forgive and forget, and from then on their picnics are mostly positive.

“Do you remember that time when Julieta tried to beat up that boy for talking you about your cloud?” Bruno asks during such a picnic.

Juleita flushes bright red from his teasing tone. “Dios mio, you two are never going to let me forget that.”

Pepa throws her head back, laughing with abandon. Her laughter sends the birds scattering from the trees. “She was merciless! Oh, if only the children could’ve seen you then, the calm and responsible Julieta Madrigal!”

Juliet wags a finger at Pepa good naturally. “Don’t you dare tell the children of this. You’ll put bad ideas in their heads and God only knows Camilo doesn’t need any more of those.”

Pepa simply laughs again as a rainbow blossoms above her head and Bruno smiles at his sisters’ antics. It is the three of them together again, the Madrigal Triplets, and he has never been happier.

“You were quite creative with your insults, I recall.”

Julieta shakes her head fondly as she poorly conceals a smile. “You’re the one to speak, hermanito. I remember the reason he only left Pepa alone was because you went and lied and told him he would have a fate worse then death if he didn’t stop.”

“But I didn’t lie,” Bruno protests. “He would face a fate worse than dearth if he didn’t stop being a malparido.”

The women wear identical expression of surprise and look at him curiously, awaiting an answer.

Bruno flashes a devilish smirk, and for a second they swear they are children again. No magic, no Gifts, just Julieta, Pepa and Bruno, one for all and all for one.

"Why, he'd have to face Alma Madrigal’s wrath of course.”

***

Bruno makes his apologies, and the family offers their own. The Madrigals are a changed group, but they have been changed for the better. They aren’t perfect and they aren’t without their flaws, but it is a start.

***

Mirabel adjusts well to all the changes, all things considered. She is still healing from her own demons and pain, but she is happier now. Lighter. She no longer looks at the Doors with sadness and guilt, but with love and gratitude, for her family is whole and well and safe, and that is all she could ever ask for.

And for when the doubts do appear in the middle of the night, for when she lies in bed and wonders what her new purpose will be, she remembers the way Casita came alive from her touch. She has her speculations but she won’t know the truth until Abuela’s time has ended, so for now she waits with patience and grace and lets the warm love of her family lull her to sleep.

***

Bruno officially moves back into the house, into his old room, and while there are still some sand and some stairs, it is much more welcoming. The room returns to the original state it was in before his Gift was seen as a curse, when Bruno was just a boy.

The few apartments that vanished when he was twenty reappear and connect off the main chamber like a pretty web. New apartments are added for his personal liking as well. There’s a wash room with bathing pools, a storage room for his visions, and even a space with a stage for his telenovelas.

Bruno suspects the reason for the renovations is the room responding to his feelings. The more reserved and withdrawn he became over the years, the harsher and hostile the room grew and the greater the number of stairs became.

But now Casita senses his desire to reconnect with his family, with the Encanto, with himself, and wishes to provide him with the comfort to do so.

***

Mirabel gets her own room as well. It has a door, a fine door, not a magical door, but she tells herself that doesn’t matter because this door opens to a room that is only hers. There’s a newer, bigger bed, a table for her sewing machine, a storage closest for her crafts, a pinboard wall for her drawings and sketches. There’s even a window that opens onto a small balcony that overlooks the Encanto.

This new room still has hints of the nursery, but is entirely for her. It reflects her bright personality through bold colors and patterns and designs, and painted on every surface is a cloud of gold butterflies.

The familia is overjoyed for Mirabel and she lets herself be swept up by their happiness. She is happy to have her own space. She tells herself that even though it’s not magical, it is hers, and for the most part she believes it.

The only one who suspects something’s amiss is Tío Bruno, if the skeptical looks he sends her way are any indication. But Bruno is engrossed in reconnecting with the family and Mirabel doesn’t want to burden or busy him with such a trivial, silly matter as a bedroom, so she waves him off every time with a smile of such brilliance that he is forced to yield.

Or so she thinks.

She should know better than now to know her Tío is as stubborn as she is, and that he won’t let something go that easily.

Bruno finds his sobrina on Casita’s roof as she enjoys the last few strands of daylight. His eyesight has much improved since he left his walls, mostly thanks to Julieta's cooking, and he no longer looks pale and sickly, thanks to some vitamin D, but he still gets tired from being in the sun for too long. Dusk is his favorite time of day, for it’s the most agreeable on his eyes. The light isn't too harsh or too dim, it's just right, making it Bruno's preferred time to walk about and drink in his home.

As Bruno approaches his niece he can see both the baby he used to hold and the fierce girl who saved the Encanto. She's navigating that hazy time where she's too old to be a child and too young to be a woman, and it both brightens and saddens his heart.

Bruno settles beside Mirabel. He knows she doesn't remember, but he can recall the last time they were up here as if it was yesterday. She was four and a half and they had snuck onto the roof to watch for shooting stars because she was hell bent on making a wish. If only they had known that their whole world would change in a mere six months. Would anything be different, he wonders, if they had?

“Did you know,” Bruno begins a bit awkwardly, “that the first word you spoke was my name?”

He holds his breath and hopes she responds. He's been back for months now and while they've had plenty of talk, this time feels different. It might be the location, the sun, the timing, but something about the moment is special. And he's afraid he'll ruin it somehow by saying something wrong or doing something stupid.

But something in him is telling him to do this. It is that same feeling Bruno gets when searching and scanning the future, that urges him and guides him through his visions, that spoke to him so long ago and told him to take her in his arms. He trusts it, and knows he has to do this, that this is the right thing to do.

Mirabel shifts in surprise. She’s always figured mamí or papí was her first word, but now that she thinks about it, she realizes her parents actually never told her what it was. It makes sense, being that when she would’ve start asking such questions, Bruno was already a tabooed topic.

Withholding such information seems trivial, and it is. But it saddens her, for it reminds her once more of their familia’s imperfections and blemishes and bruises and bumps.

“We aren’t perfect,” Bruno says quietly, eyes pinned on the horizon, as if he can hear her thoughts. “No one is.”

“I know,” she says hurriedly. “And that’s okay. It’s fine. Really!”

“It is,” he agrees, "but it’s also okay not to be okay. You... don’t have to be fine all the time. That’s kind of an impossible ask.” His voice is strained and thin but encourages her to tell her what he suspects.

The silence that follows is the loudest thing Bruno has ever heard.

Bruno turns to his sobrina. "What’s wrong, kid?”

She stares into her lap. To a stranger she might seem peaceful or contemplative, but Bruno has known her all her life and knows there is so much more happening below the surface.

Mirabel picks at a lose thread on her skirt. She lowers her voice to a mumble. “Sometimes it still bothers me. Not having a Gift when everyone else does. And I know it’s stupid because the Gifts aren’t everything, I just...” She exhales heavily and rips the thread free. “I thought I’d be over all that. I saved the Miracle. The Encanto is safe. The family is great, better then even... so why can’t I be?”

Bruno rubs the nape of his neck. The urge to throw some salt or knock on some wood bubbles up inside him and he is proud of himself for resisting.

"I’m going to be honest with you, okay? That feeling is probably never going to go away. Because you are who you are and that probably won’t change. But it’ll get better, I think. We’re all trying to improve. There’s already been a huge shift in how things are, but it’s slow going. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither will this.” His hands flutter vaguely in the air, wishing he could find a word better then this to describe all their messy baggage.

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“And neither will you,” he adds. “This… stuff takes time. I think the feeling will lessen eventually, but it’ll still be there.” He's just babbling now, but she doesn't ask him to stop. “But I think that’s okay. It’s part of you whether you want it to be or not, and it’s good to acknowledge it. You know. Self awareness and all that. God only knows this family needs more of it.”

Mirabel laughs a little, breaking the tension a bit. “So you’re saying I’m always going to carry this with me?”

Bruno shrugs, pleased he got her to laugh. "In some form, maybe, but then again, maybe not. Who knows?"

"You are a seer," she points out.

"Touché." He twists his hands in his ruana. "But you know what you will always have?”

“What?”

He grins. “Your parents. Your sisters. Your cousins and tío and tía. Your abuela. Me.”

“Oh no,” she deadpans.

“Oh yes.” He winks at her devilishly. “You can’t get rid of me now, kid."

Mirabel’s grin is like the sun and he is happy to see her spirits rise. “And if I wanted to?” she teases.

Bruno bumps his arm with hers. “You still can’t get rid of me. I’ll always be with you. Like a shadow. Like a hawk.”

Mirabel’s smile falls from her face as if it was burnt from her lips. Her happy expression morphs into one of confusion. The change is so sudden and so severe that it takes him a few seconds to register it, but when he does, he finds himself staring at a completely different person.

Bruno sobers, startled by his sobrina’s sudden shift in demeanor. He extends a gentle hand but she is quick to shy away. He pulls back, injured.

"Mirabel?” His brow furrows, eyes crinkling. “What’s wrong?”

I’ll always be with you.

Those words.

I’ll always be with you.

She’s heard them before.

I'll always be with you. 

Mirabel blinks. She stares at him in helplessness, in hopelessness, in heartbreak. She looks like she’s seen a ghost, like he crushed her heart into dust.

“Mirabel…” He's completely baffled and perplexed. Was it something he said? Something he did? Should he fetch Julieta and Augustín? Everything was going so good and of course he had to go and mess it up.

“You…” Mirabel inhales shakily as she tries to grasp at strings and make sense out of scraps. “You said that before.”

“Said what?” Bruno says, bewildered.

“That… that you’d always be with me.”

His eyes cloud with confusion.

“That night," she says, "when you left. When you disappeared.”

Bruno freezes and Mirabel closes her eyes as the memory washes over her.

I’ll always be with you, kid. Even if you can’t see me. I’ll be with you.

“I wouldn’t let anyone come in, but... but you did, somehow…" Her face scrunches as she finally recalls. "You crawled under the bed. The nursery. It was so small. You could barely fit, but I was under there so you did too.”

Bruno sees a younger her and a younger him, huddled together in the dark.

He feels the mattress grazing his head, smells the dust under the bed, feels the floor planks brushing his belly.

He hears their whispered, weepy conversation, he sees her sorrow from so many years ago.

“You were trying to cheer me up."

Bruno watches his younger self perch on top of the tiny bed and a little Mirabel crawl into his lap, seeking comfort and contact and answers he didn't have.

"You left without even saying goodbye.”

Bruno watches his younger self wait for her to fall asleep before letting the tears fall. He sobs for hours over her sleeping form. For her, for him, for what he must do. Hours go by. His lap goes numb. Mirabel remains asleep.

And finally, Bruno watches his younger self lift his sleeping little sobrina from his lap, tuck her in bed, kiss her on the brow, and vanish without a word.

Presently, Mirabel plays with her hands in her lap, a look of pure despair on her face. “Do you remember?”

Do you remember?

What a cruel question.

Do you remember? 

Of course he does.

Do you remember? 

He remembers everything.

Do you remember?

How could he not?

“I woke up and you were gone. I tried to find you, I couldn’t, and I was so scared, Tío Bruno, I… I was all alone and Giftless and I thought – I-I thought—” she breaks off into a sob, waiting a moment to catch her breath.

"I thought I made you leave. I thought the Miracle was punishing me, that your disappearance was my fault. I thought I'd done something terrible because you were the last person with me. I was so emotional, I thought I'd hurt you and that this was my Gift — hurting the person I loved most — and that this awfulness that I couldn’t control would someday reach everyone else I cared for—”

“Mirabel,” Bruno says thickly. His head is reeling and his heart is trembling. His mouth his full of cotton, but he forces himself to speak. “I want you to listen to me when I say this. I want you to hear me when I speak.

"This was never your fault, okay? I know you‘ve heard this about a hundred times already, and I know you understand. But I also know this sort of feeling has its way of haunting you, trapping you almost, and it can be hard to get free from.

“But listen, kid. You were five years old. Five years old. What the Candle did is it’s own business. It had its own reasons that I don't pretend to understand. But I left because I chose to, and for a whole bunch of other reasons that were beyond both our control. And I'm so sorry for leaving the way that I did. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, lo siento, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left without saying goodbye. But I need you to understand that everything I did, I did it on my own, okay? It wasn’t your fault. This wasn’t your fault.

"It never was.”

Bruno knows that even as he sits with her right here and right now, that even with all her intelligence and growth and healing and progress, there is still a small part of her who is that same little girl he found hiding under her bed, who is a failure in every sense of the word, who believes she will never be good enough.

And he knows that this is who he is speaking to right now.

It it just like the night of the failed Gift ceremony. Mirabel has closed herself to him and cannot accept the truth in his words. She has receded into the darkest depths of her mind where no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he fights, he cannot follow. He might as well be speaking to a wall.

Bruno sees so much of himself in her in this moment, he sees what years of warring with herself have done. He just hopes and prays that she hears him now, but if she can’t, he knows he will continue to wait for however long it takes until she finally does.

Hours.

Days.

Months.

Years.

Crickets hum. Birds chirp.

Faint laughter trickles its way up to the roof.

Sweet aromas dance beneath their noses.

Time passes and the horizon darkens.

Finally, crowned in the glow of the setting sun, Mirabel looks at him with gold lit tears spilling down her cheeks. There is newfound reverence in her eyes, a clarity.

She heard him.

She finally understands.

To what extent her comprehension reaches, he doesn’t know. She has so much to work through. One singular moment on a roof won’t abolish every taught fear and learned insecurity that is embedded so deeply into her mind. She has been taught to war with herself, and it will take more then a single talk to unlearn that.

But this is a start. This is a chance. And for Mirabel, that’s all Bruno could ask for — all he could want.

“I missed you so much,” Mirabel says damply. “I think I always have. Even when I didn’t know.”

There is a steady thrum of guilt in Bruno's chest, but he refuses to let it fester. This a new age, a new time, and they are all trying to heal. It won’t be easy or swift, but he is hell bent on giving it his all.

"There was always this ache inside me. I thought it was for not having a Gift, and it was, but I think it was also for you."

Bruno gently takes her hand in his. His sobrina gazes up at him and it reminds him how she used to cling to his fingers and stare up at him, wide eyed and trusting, when she was a little girl.

“I missed you too, kid. More than you’ll ever know.”

Mirabel stares at Bruno, at this man who has sacrificed so much for her, who witnessed so many of her firsts, who was always there even when he was gone, who never forgot her even when she forgot him.

"I can’t believe I forgot you," she says miserably. "Everything we shared...” Anguish and disbelief eclipse her face. “All of it, all those years – you were always there. I-I don’t know how I forgot something so social. You were my whole world and when you left, I just... I didn't know how…”

Bruno squeezes her hand with all the love and hope and happiness in the world. “Never underestimate the power of trauma. Time takes so much, but trauma takes even more. And it was traumatizing, everything you went through that night. I'm honestly not surprised you forgot. It was your way of protecting yourself from the pain.”

Mirabel glances at him and their eyes meet. You sound like you speak from experience. 

Bruno doesn't break away. I think I do. 

Mirabel places her cheek on her tío’s shoulder as the sun slips behind the trees. He rests his head against hers, her curls tickling his chin, and together they gaze out over the Encanto as Casita ruffles its tiles as if to say Welcome Home, Welcome Back.

"Did you know," Bruno says, voice soft and slow so to not disturb the delicate peace, "that you were born at this time? It was dusk, just like tonight. The world was washed in gold and it was so beautiful, but none of us really noticed. We were so focused on you. You were late, you see, and you were tangle in the chord. When you finally arrived you weren't even breathing."

It was the scariest day of my life. 

"I didn't know that," she says, just as softly.

He nods solemnly. He figured as much. It's a dark tale to tell a kid.

"How'd they get me to start breathing?"

Bruno shakes his head. "Honestly, I don't really know. I just knew I just had to hold you and for some reason the moment you were in my arms, you opened your eyes."

Mirabel is silent. There is so much she doesn't know. So much time that's been lost, erased, forgotten. She mourns for the memories she will never retrieve, the stories that've been stolen by time and trauma.

Mirabel steals a look at Bruno. His head is tilted back and he's gazing at the sky. He seems younger and freer. She likes seeing him like this.

"Will you tell me more?" she asks, tentativeness and hope bleeding together. He must have more stories and she is dying to hear each and every one.

Bruno's eyes twinkle like stars as he smiles and she thinks he should smile more often. "Of course."

For you, mi chiquita?

Anything. 

After all these years of carrying her burdens alone, Mirabel can finally lay them at his feet, and together they will toss them so far that they can never touch her again.

***

She was five minutes old when he almost lost her, and she was five years old when she truly lost him.

Now she is fifteen, and he is too old to say, and they have finally found their way back.

They are not untouched, they are not unbent. They are both battered and bruised and scattered and scorched and tattered and torn and shattered and scarred.

Stones have been added to their baskets, stones that have been chipped and scratched and cracked and nicked.

But they are themselves, they are alive, they are unbreakable and beautiful and resilient. They have scars, yes, as everyone does, but they wear those scars with pride. Scars are proof that they are alive, they are here, they have lived a life worth living, and no matter whatever obstacles that are thrown their way, they will never lose one another — or themselves — ever again.

~Fin~