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The doctor had just left without a word, and the family was none the wiser about Tío Bruno’s condition. Abuela was pacing around the Guzmáns’ living room, glaring at the shelves and plants as she dug her nails into her arms that were crossed in worry for her only son.

Mirabel was trying her best to get her to settle down, stumbling after her with an expression of understanding and concern. Dolores’ youngest cousin was once again the only one brave enough to confront their grandmother. And, it seemed the only one who had a chance of breaking through to her. 

Something had happened between them while they had been gone, Dolores mused. Something had evolved their relationship before they had returned to Casita’s rubbles the previous day, the whinny of a horse a little farther away. It was plain as day because Mirabel didn't back away from the dark aura Abuela emitted.

Dolores looked at her red skirt while she sat obediently on a chair at the table, Luisa beside her. They had always been the most accepting of the power dynamics in their family and mutely agreed not to intervene in the dangerous situation unfolding in front of them.

Just like they always had. 

Dolores didn’t know about her tallest cousin, but she had never uttered a word of doubt concerning Abuela’s vision for their future, or rather the Encanto’s future. She had never acted because she knew how much everyone had been hurting, most of all her grandmother. It had been far easier on her heart to simply turn a blind eye, or in her gifted case, a deaf ear to all the troubles they had been facing.

However, she had never felt as unhearing and numb as at that moment.

Her sudden lack of a Gift was difficult to get used to. It felt like she constantly had cotton up her ear canals. They itched like mosquito bites, and she wanted to scratch at them. But she clenched her fingers and tried to hold still so that Abuela wouldn't notice her.

Everything just felt so removed from her, or perhaps it was her who was shackled to the spot? Whatever the cause, her sense of direction made her nauseous and dizzy.

How often had she cursed her so-called ‘blessing’? Dolores hadn’t told anyone about it, of course. Her already stressed mother would have combusted with guilt. Dolores had accepted her trade of cards as a sacrifice for the family. It was what she had grown up with, after all.

It was a dreadful thought how much she had been able to listen in on and dissect but it had been just as difficult not to abuse her overwhelming knowledge for selfish gain. Instead, Dolores had made sure the town would trust her and swear to secrecy, reassuring the people that she could be helpful in everyday situations. 

She had restricted herself to honor a certain someone who had given his all to keep others’ secrets, like a dark and noble knight no matter the scorn that had awaited him. 

And who was now, after ten years of torture, in even more precarious peril.

“Abuela,” Mirabel said, and Dolores had never heard her speak so softly, so considerately to their grandmother, “It’ll be okay.”

The older woman halted in motion and brought her hands up to her lips. They were pressed together as if she were praying, pushing her painted lips against them as she mumbled to a higher power.

To Abuelo Pedro, Dolores supposed. Abuela had always done it even when she had tried to hide her vulnerability from the rest of the family, breaking down in tears inside a room that reminded her of an unburdened life she had never gotten to live.

“Brunito… my little boy,” the old woman repeated under her breath, eyes trained in a steely and hot stare at somewhere over Mirabel’s head. The younger girl tried to make her presence known by cupping her grandmother’s hands and pushing herself up to the tips of her toes.

Dolores was reminded of Abuela’s defeated expression when she had slumped in disbelief in Casita’s rubble just after the house had collapsed. Dolores had guided her away from the center then, making sure she was okay.

But now, is seemed like it was Abuela's mental state that had a weak foundation. 

Abuela had been glaring at her the whole time they had been waiting outside the Guzmáns’ house for the doctor to finish her uncle's examination, most likely wanting her to answer why she had kept Tío Bruno’s whereabouts a secret.

The explanation wasn’t easy because Dolores wasn’t sure about it herself.

She felt Luisa stiffen next to her when Tía Julieta came into the room, her hair frazzled and the bow of her apron undone. The woman looked at Abuela's form with an unreadable expression. 

"Agustín brought him upstairs to the guestroom," Tía Julieta mentioned tiredly, slipping the top of the apron over her head to wring it in her hands, "Bruno needs to rest."

Abuela turned to face her stoically, her arms now at her sides, although Mirabel was holding on to one, appearing to give the older woman a hug.

Dolores frowned, but it went unnoticed when the Madrigal matriarch opened her mouth to speak.

"But that is not the only thing he needs. What did the doctor say?" Abuela asked, getting right to the point and knowing exactly how she had to look at her children to unlock the truth from them when her mask had slid into place.

Dolores couldn’t have endured if Abuela had stared at her the same way. That was why Dolores had always acted a bit weird to throw her off track and to let her believe she existed in her own world beyond worries and fear, like a bubbly airhead. It was easier to escape the constant buzzing in her sensitive ears. It had made it less painful to ‘know everything about everyone’ as her cousin had described it to Casita when she had been in the nursery, talking about a plan to ‘save the Miracle’.

Yes, Dolores had heard her. She had helped tidying up the house after Antonio's Gift Ceremony, not surprised at all when Mirabel had confronted her the next morning. But even under those circumstances, Dolores hadn't been able to bring herself to tell her cousin about the ghost of Tío Bruno living alongside them.

Dolores had convinced herself, and Mirabel, it had only been the rats in the walls all along.

But had she really, or was she still trying to make excuses for her delusion? It was a difficult place to judge herself for it, now that Tío Bruno was ‘back’ and very hurt.

"Mamá…," Tía Julieta trailed off, and Dolores had never seen her be so subtly exasperated at Abuela.

"Tell me," Abuela commanded and took long steps toward her daughter. She almost ripped herself free from Mirabel's grip as she put her hands on Julieta's shoulders, putting slight pressure on them.

Dolores would have heard the hardwood floor groan when the older woman had walked over it, with her Gift.

But instead of the anticipated noise, she only recognized her grandmother's labored breathing while she looked sternly at Tía Julieta.

"Please, mija, I have to know," Abuela pleaded, her voice softening.

Dolores understood her aunt's hesitation. Even though Abuela could do a lot with the information, it was almost guaranteed she would do  too much. Dolores knew how to filter news when her grandmother had asked her for them, like the master of a messaging dove.

For the fun of it, Dolores had also tweaked them, occasionally, making up stories. Mariano wanting to have five babies had been more of a silent wish from her and a way to jibe at Isabela.

That was a very different can of worms she shouldn't open at this time in respect to her beloved uncle.

Poor, poor Tío Bruno…

He had always told the best stories, Dolores thought.

“This is boring!” Isabela groaned and rolled on her back, putting her short arm over her eyes like a diva who didn’t want to rise from her cloudy bed.

Dolores looked at her slightly older cousin and let go of the doll she was holding, a little sad that the other girl didn’t want to play with them anymore.

They had been reenacting a scene from a fairytale book Tía Julieta had read to them that morning. It had been about a girl in a tower, living in a faraway land with really, really long hair. Isa had long hair, too, but not the tenacity to spend much time on her own. That was why Dolores had brought her doll collection to the living room and given Isa the mini swords she had.

The girl in the story, Rapunzel, had been rescued by a prince in the end, and Isa had been very upset by it. Isa liked the part better where the girl had fought against the evil men. Dolores’ cousin had begged her mother to tell them the original way of the story, but Tía Julieta had said it was too creepy and it would give them nightmares.

Dolores didn’t really understand why Tía Julieta had said 'no' because she didn’t have nightmares about silly stories, ever. It was the real noises that came from the jungle and the village that made it difficult to sleep outside her sound-proof room.

“Then what do you want to do, Isa?” Dolores asked and propped up her arms to rest her chin on them.

Isabela flopped back on her stomach to stare at her with pursed lips. “I dunno,” she said, pressing her finger into the male doll as if to check he wasn’t alive, “I really like stories but they’re all just so… dull.”

Dull, Dolores repeated in her head. Her cousin liked all things sharp and pointy, most of all the plants she made or was trying to make. The easiest for her to create were beautiful flowers and Isa was always so happy when they made the villagers and Abuela happy. But Isa didn’t quite have control over her Gift yet, and neither did Dolores, but the grown-ups told them they would master them one day.

That gave the younger girl an idea. “Maybe we don’t have to think about the story we want to hear, but… the one who tells it,” Dolores mused and looked at the woven carpet they were laying on. It wasn’t very comfortable.

“You’re so smart, Dolly!” Isa gasped and grinned at her. Dolores liked it when her older cousin called her that.

“But who? Our mamás are always busy,” Isabela explained, looking at the tie in one of her pigtails, “Maybe Papá? He always tells good stories.”

It was true, Dolores agreed with a nod. Tío Agustín always went all-out to make the fairytales as funny as possible. But Dolores noticed a problem when she turned her super-hearing on him. She could locate him by the wood chopping place but there was a loud and angry buzzing sound around the man, and he was shrieking loudly.

“Your papá made the bees angry again,” Dolores said, and Isa rolled her eyes.

“Silly Papá…,” Isa giggled and pursed her lips, “What about Tío Félix?”

“He’s out with Mamá to keep her happy and sunny for the cornfields.”

“Abuela?” Isa listed off.

“She’s buying Luisa a new dress. Luisa wants a pink one, but Abuela says she looks better in blue,” Dolores explained, hearing her youngest cousin whine at the fabric she must have wanted. Abuela shushed her.

“That’s right!” Isa agreed, standing up with pride. She twirled so that the hem of her dress flattered up. “Pink is my color.”

“That only leaves Tío Bruno,” Dolores mumbled and started to put her dolls back into the basket. 

Isa bent down to help her, frowning at the princess doll she inspected in her hand. “Where is he anyway?” she asked, “I hope he isn’t still angry at me for making him trip over that plant…”

Oh, Dolores remembered that fiasco like yesterday, when it had actually happened. Isa had tried to make a potted plant grow, up by the banister that overlooked the courtyard of their home, not knowing that Tío Bruno had been too tired to pay attention to where he was going. Dolores had cringed when she had heard him yell as he face-planted. Not even Casita herself had been quick enough to soften his fall. But no matter, Tía Julieta always had healing arepas in the kitchen.

Dolores shook her head and giggled at her cousin’s guilty expression. “Tío Bruno is never angry,” she stated and took Isa’s hand when they had cleaned everything up. “Oh!” the younger girl exclaimed when she heard familiar quiet footsteps, “He’s coming down the stairs right now!”

“Really?” Isa grinned and they ran out of the room with excitement to meet their reclusive uncle, squealing all the way.

“Tío Bruno!” Isa shouted when she saw the man and immediately apologized for causing a ringing in Dolores’ ears. Dolores ignored the slight pain in her head as both cousins threw themselves at their uncle.

“Ay, conejitos! Not so fast!” Bruno greeted the girls with a laugh and wrapped his arms around them as they hugged his legs, or rather his torso. Tío Bruno wasn’t as tall as Tío Agustín, after all.

Dolores snuggled into her uncle’s poncho as she embraced him. It was always so soft and comfortable. She either wanted one too or hide her head under it. The fabric was so thick that she wanted to believe it was sound-proof like her room.

“Hey, Tío Bruno…?” Isabela asked, looking up at her uncle with extra-wide eyes that made even Abuela weak.

Bruno’s smile dimmed and he raised an eyebrow. “You want something forbidden again, don’t you?” he asked, and Dolores thought he was trying really hard to remain stern.

“Noooo…?” Isa continued but Tío Bruno waved a dismissive hand at her.

“Come on, Isa. Out with it,” Bruno demanded, resting his other hand on the small of Dolores’ back. It was warm and steadying and it made Dolores smile.

“It’s just… can you read us The Whistler again?” Isabela asked innocently and played with the green poncho as if she was just a meek young girl when everyone in the family knew better. Much better.

“You’re oddly persistent…,” Tío Bruno replied and wrestled with himself a bit. Dolores knew how their uncle liked to play by the rules in their household, but he was also the one who most frequently broke them for his nieces.

Then, Tío Bruno sighed and pushed them back into the living room where the bookshelves were. “Fine, but this is the last time I’ll allow it,” he warned, and Dolores chuckled when he drew himself up a bit to mirror the confidence of her mamá.

“Alright, where’s the book?” he asked, looking through the rows of books that were at his eye level. He tapped his chin while he did so, humming.

Isa stepped back when her uncle had trouble locating it, with her hands on her hips. “It’s up there, Tío Bruno!” she yelled and pointed at the highest shelf. There was a thick book with a dark blue cover and a silvery font.

“Oh, Pepa definitely knew what she was doing when she put it there,” Tío Bruno muttered to himself, glaring at the book in question that was far out of his reach. “Casita, a little help?” he asked, a nervous grin on his face that revealed his boxy teeth.

Casita answered the three people by slowly moving a squeaky door, creating low noises that Dolores interpreted as a ‘nuh-uh’. Bruno frowned at the part of the house, slightly offended at its defiance.

Tío Bruno sighed again and turned to face the girls, shrugging. “Well, you heard it,” he told them, and a disappointed look crossed his face, “I can’t do anything about that so I’m just gonna go—“

“No, wait!” Isa shouted, grabbing their uncle’s wrist lest he could escape, holding him in place to see her idea through, “I’ll snatch it with a vine!”

Dolores shrunk back behind Tío Bruno, trying to use him as a shield. Isa really wasn’t good at controlling her plants, yet…

Isa scrunched her nose in concentration and held her hands together, staring at the floor in front of her. Suddenly, a tiny green sprout emerged from the gaps in the ground. The way it steadily grew made a creaky noise only Dolores could hear, and when the sound became louder and more foreboding as the plant rose, she shrieked to warn her uncle.

“Tío Bruno, watch out!” she screamed and pulled on her uncle’s clothes.

There was a crash that left the younger girl breathless as she held her ears, hoping Isa’s stupid plant hadn’t gotten Tío Bruno again. Then she slowly opened her eyes when she heard deep breaths on the crown of her head, realizing how her uncle had wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her body instead of looking out for himself.

Tío Bruno then cupped her cheek, making sure she was okay. His fingers were kind of rough, but very gentle and careful, just like his eyes. Dolores clung to his back when her uncle turned around, observing the destroyed bookshelf and Isa who was shuffling her feet and guiltily avoiding their uncle’s gaze.

“Err, sorry,” Isa mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Tío Bruno cleared his throat to fill the silence as they all stared at the mess of wooden planks and books strew around the room and the plant that had shot through the shelf like an arrow, now half-buried in the wall.

A white flower popped open on the stem, like a silver lining in the middle of a disaster.

“I really am sorry, Tío Bruno!” Isa insisted, her lower lip wobbling like she was about to cry.

Tío Bruno only sighed once more, but it wasn’t the angry kind that Abuela sometimes had. It was in the typical tío kind of way, the I’m-really-tired-but-it's-okay way. Tío Bruno bent down to pick up the book Isa had managed to kick down, wiping the cover clean.

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” Tío Bruno said, patting Isa’s head when he tugged the book under his arm, “It takes a lot of work and practice to control a Gift.”

“Your mamás and I still have trouble with them, sometimes!” Tío Bruno continued and laughed, making Isa smile a little again. “And if Casita had helped me in the first place,” Tío Bruno said bluntly and walked a few steps, “We could have practiced it in a… more controlled environment.”

Casita didn’t say anything, but Dolores thought she saw Tío Bruno’s point.

Their uncle flopped down in one of the three red armchairs, patting the free spaces next to him. Dolores and Isa didn’t hesitate to scramble up to him and nestle their bodies between the armrests and his legs. Dolores thought it was the most comfortable way to sit. She didn’t really like being on someone’s lap.

Instead, she buried her cheek in her uncle’s poncho and hugged him from the side. His body was a little pricky and his shoulder was sharp, but she loved hearing his heartbeat. It was faster than most others, so it made her even happier when it calmed down.

“Now then,” Tío Bruno told them, opening the book, and flipping through the pages, “let’s set the stage.”

Isa giggled in anticipation, and giddily eyed the headline. They had just learned how to read in school so they could check if Tío Bruno had picked out the correct story for them. But of course, they could trust Tío Bruno. Dolores nodded when she put the letters together that formed the words 'El Silbón'.

“Once upon a time, there was a father with his sons who lived in the wide plains of the Llanos,” Tío Bruno began, and squeezed his arms tighter around the girls to maneuver the book, “The harvest wasn’t enough for all three of them and they were often very hungry.”

“Where’s the mother?” Isa interrupted immediately, putting her hand on the page to see if their uncle had skipped a line.

“It doesn’t say,” Tío Bruno admitted, and Isa gasped.

“But there was a mother last time!”

Their uncle chuckled. “I always take… artistic liberties,” he explained, “It makes the stories more memorable?”

“Huh,” Isa mused, and Dolores had to agree with their uncle.

“So, is the mother dead?” Isa asked with an expression that didn’t reveal how she was feeling at the prospect.

“Yeah?” Tío Bruno answered. “There’s always at least one dead parent in stories like these,” he said bitterly.

Dolores frowned and cuddled up to her uncle. Although Abuelo Pedro was dead, too, he was still watching over them. Dolores always greeted him when she would run by the stairs where his portrait hung. Tío Bruno must miss his papá, too. Dolores could only imagine how much he missed him; it must be difficult to lose a parent, even one he had never gotten to know.

“Anyway, one day, the father told the younger son to go into the forest. He wanted him to kill a deer and bring home its heart so that they could eat it,” Tío Bruno continued darkly but then sighed, “You know, it sounds like a waste to only eat the heart, right?”

“Yeah, it does!” Isa agreed and eyed the book skeptically when she noticed the plot hole.

“So, the younger son went into the forest. He had his bow and arrow and of course a plan to kill the deer. But it always ran away before he could shoot it, hiding in the thicket and laughing at him,” Tío Bruno went on, flipping to the next page, “When the young man got home without the heart, his father was very, very angry with him. So angry, in fact, that he beat him black and blue. The young man cried.”

“It wasn’t his fault, though,” Dolores spoke, and Tío Bruno looked at her in surprise.

“Why do you think that, mija?” Tío Bruno asked, his eyes wide open.

“Well,” she said and rubbed her nose, “The deer was too fast for him. And why didn’t his father go with him to help him?”

“I… uh, the father just expected him to do it?” Tío Bruno tapped his chin, thinking, “We also have responsibilities in the family, right?”

Dolores didn’t say anything, still thinking it was unfair to blame the young man for not catching the deer. Dolores was sure he had done his best. Just like her uncle, she realized. The villagers were often angry with her uncle. She could hear it all the time.

Isa shook Tío Bruno’s arm to make him go on with the story. “The young man had always been vindictive and evil and that’s why he killed his father.”

“Was there blood?” Isa asked.

“Yes, lots and lots of blood,” Tío Bruno answered flatly to which Isa tried to whistle in admiration.

“Then the brother barged into the room after he had heard the screams. He saw his brother with a dirty weapon and the lifeless corpse of their father. The older brother managed to chain the young man and whipped him in revenge. Then he found chili powder in the kitchen and threw it in his face so that his eyes burned away.”

Isa snorted. “Hot peppers can’t do that…”

Tío Bruno ignored her. “Then the older brother let the young man go, saying that he was never welcome in the family again. They also had a dog and the older brother set it free and commanded it to chase his brother.”

“What breed is the do—?” Isa tried to ask but Tío Bruno put his hand over her mouth. Dolores found it funny and was amused to see how her cousin struggled against it.

“Legend says the man is still trying to whistle the dog off to this day. And when you go through that forest and hear a whistle close by you, El Sibón is far, but if it’s far away, then El Sibón is close…”

“Creepy,” Isa laughed when Tío Bruno took his hand away from her face now that he was done with the story.

“What does El Sibón look like, Tío Bruno?” Dolores wondered. If she ever heard him, no matter where he was, she wanted to know what she would be sensing.

“Let’s brainstorm a bit, huh? Many people say he’s really tall. Way over seven feet,” Tío Bruno told them, snapping the book shut.

“Oh,” Dolores added, “He was always hungry before he left so he must be pretty skinny.”

Tío Bruno laughed and Isa pulled herself into his lap, taking the book. “And he doesn’t have any eyes because the hot pepper burned them away,” Isa explained.

“But how does he see in the forest, then? It gets very dark there,” Dolores wondered and couldn’t suppress a yawn although she was too old to take a nap in the middle of the day. But Tío Bruno was so warm and cozy…

Isa shook her head. “Maybe he has super hearing like you?” she said and pointed at her younger cousin. Then she grinned when she had an idea. “Or a green light that shines out of his skull. Like Tío Bruno!” she explained and slapped her hands on their uncle’s cheeks, squashing them in a way that gave him fish lips.

“Eh,” Tío Bruno choked out, somehow being openly compared to a forest monster not sitting right with him. Dolores heard his heartbeat quicken.

Isa insisted that it had to be the case and Tío Bruno tried to change the topic. Their voices blurred as they squabbled and became white noise to Dolores as her eyes slid shut and she snuggled deeper into the poncho.

But, before she could fully fall asleep, her uncle tucked her in, saying quietly: “Never lose your empathy, Lolita.”

His voice was soft, and Dolores thought their understanding for the monster had touched their uncle’s heart more than they knew.

Dolores scowled to herself when she realized that she had lost her empathy over the years. It had been welded down like a rock in the ocean of too much noise and rumors until there was nothing left.

At least she was still self-aware.

"He… Señor Ramírez said Bruno is malnourished. He's too small. I saw… I saw the measuring results," Tía Julieta admitted, and a sob crept up her throat, her eyes flickering shut for a second to compose herself in front of her desperate mother and the children.

Tía Julieta shouldn’t feel guilty for Tío Bruno not having eaten property during his time inside the walls. If not for Dolores' aunt, Bruno would never have made it this far and come out alive on the other side.

Abuela nodded, swallowing. "I expected as much," she agreed, and Mirabel was searching for her sister's attention now that her grandmother was occupied.

Luisa was still sitting there, unmoving, just as distraught as everyone else by the situation. Dolores wondered how much her second oldest cousin knew about the mystery surrounding their newly returned uncle. Had Mirabel filled her in on everything related to Tío Bruno?

When they had bolted through the walls, Dolores was sure the noise they made had to have been noticeable for the rest of the household. But apparently, the other family members had just carried on in ignorance.

It was right after the cracks had torn through Casita.

Tía Julieta bundled up her apron, about to put it down on one of the chairs. But Abuela put her hands around it, stopping Tía Julieta from doing so. The older woman begged her not to set her tools, her skillset, away because they needed her healing hands no matter how little magic they still contained.

"We must not give up," Abuela spoke with certainty, pushing the cloth closer to her daughter, urging her to take up the mantle she had worn since she had been the tender age of five.

"I will go to the market and buy… Well, what did Señor Ramírez say?" Abuela continued, pulling at the cuffs on her dress, ready to march outside like a woman, a mother, on a mission.

"I… Ramírez said he would give us a list in the following days," Tía Julieta explained, pulling the apron to her chest. Dolores believed she felt empowered by her mother's trust in her but the pressing concern for her brother was what paralyzed her, a fear of doing something wrong, a fear of failure.

How familiar.

Abuela huffed to herself, the vague answer not to her liking. "Bruno has already tried so hard today," Abuela spoke, her voice breaking at the end. Then a shudder ran through her. "Maybe tea or some soup would be a good place to start. All the liquid we can get into him."

Dolores pieced the puzzle pieces together of what had occurred that morning as she gazed at the cleaning supplies on the table and the disarray she had found the chairs in when she had entered the room.

Tía Julieta nodded and made her way into the kitchen, sounds of pots clanking following suit. Then there were steps, long and lanky ones, as Tío Agustín greeted them when he had descended the staircase.

“He’s asleep,” he said, his brows knitted together but trying to put a reassuring smile on his face. He stemmed his hands on his hips and breathed out a long sigh when he halted by the door. Abuela nodded at him and waved him over to help her with the mess of plates and other items they had pulled out in panic.

Abuela must feel embarrassed to take so much from Señora Guzmán, but Dolores knew that Mariano wouldn’t mind it one bit. He had such a big and caring heart and took life in stride, always finding ways to romanticize it. 

Dolores knew it was a desperate and creepy thought, but she absolutely wanted to go find Mariano’s poems he always hid in the drawer of his desk. His room must be just above Dolores' head.

She daringly looked up to the ceiling and accidentally caught her grandmother’s attention she had so badly wanted to avoid.

"Dolores?" Abuela asked, and the young woman flinched at the surprising sound. Her throat constricted when she realized that she suddenly had to make up her mind and admit to her ten-year-long guilt of keeping Tío Bruno's existence a secret.

Abuela came closer to her seat and didn’t break eye contact, holding a towel in her hand. Her old eyes were cloudy but still sharp as an eagle's. The older woman looked like she was searching for something, a reason Dolores wasn't able to give her.

"You said you knew where Bruno has been. Mija, why didn't you tell us?"

And that was the question, wasn't it?

“He’s gone, Mamá,” Dolores heard her mother whisper as if she could spare her the content of their talk.

“What?!” Abuela exclaimed, making Dolores cover her ears. The girl hadn’t slept at all after her youngest cousin’s Gift Ceremony.

Who was gone? What was happening?

“We have to find him, now! I can’t believe— why would he run away?”

The family gathered some villagers to look for Tío Bruno, who had left because of a prophecy Abuela had wanted him to make. It took the search party some hours of futile trying to think logically and ask Dolores where her older uncle was.

This confused her even more because the familiar sounds coming from her uncle hadn’t changed at all overnight. He was still walking with cluttering steps, his breathing a little labored, and his hands were twitching.

Tío Bruno isn't gone. He's still there!

But where was ‘there’? Dolores asked herself. She had honed her Gift ever since she had received it, but the selective hearing was still a little difficult for her. She closed her eyes to concentrate because Abuela’s grip on her shoulder was cold and hopeless, even if her stare was full of fury.

Dolores blocked out the murmuring of the villagers in town and their conversations that spoke of unsettlement and dark glee about the first Madrigal son’s fate, some of them revelling in his disappearance. Then she turned her mind away from the bugs and the wind that traveled through Casita. At last, she recognized Tío Bruno’s rapid heartbeat somewhere in the house and the terrified whispers that left his mouth like one of Mami’s mantras.

Don’t find me. Don’t find me. Don’t find me. Don’t find…

Tío Bruno seemed stressed and anxious! This wasn’t at all like the times they had been playing hide-and-seek. This was her uncle about to cry.

Dolores flinched and clasped her hands. 

What should she do? Everyone was so worried about Tío Bruno, but he seemed really worried about being found!

“I don’t know, Abuela,” Dolores said before she could think about it, and the older woman scoffed, disappointed. 

Somewhere inside the house, Tío Bruno’s pulse settled.

However, there was a devastating hurricane outside that shook the windowpanes.

The adults had sent them upstairs to sleep, most likely discussing what they should do about the missing family member. Dolores had huddled together with her cousins, none of them wanting to spend the night alone.

When Dolores tugged on her mother’s dress the next morning, she hushed her from above, tight-lipped and weary.

“We don’t talk about Bruno, cariña,” her mother told Dolores, running her hand over the girl's hair. Pepa squeezed her eyes shut and tried to smile at her daughter. “We have to let him go.”

Dolores didn’t know what to think about that. Why shouldn't they talk about him? It was kind of a rude thing to do.

Dolores didn't want to be forgotten when she would be gone.

The sobs from behind the walls agreed with her.

There was a constant scratching and squeaking inside the house now, and Dolores wondered why Casita didn’t kick the rodents out of her sacred shelter.

Then she heard amused but husky laughter from a voice that had been dead silent for so long.

Dolores understood.

“Where are we going, Lola?” her little brother asked when she tugged him along to one of the red armchairs.

“I just want to tell you a story,” she explained, the toothy smile Camilo gave her making her release her own, “It’s one Tío Bruno used to read for us.”

While the children sat in the living room, swaddled in blankets and a dim candle flickering next to them in the middle of the night, Dolores told her brother the forbidden story of The Whistler and uttered their uncle’s forbidden name as often as she could.

She wanted Camilo to remember the man that had been so kind to her and so she tried to imitate the way he had spoken, or still spoke, muffled and stressed somewhere inside the house.

Her little brother got scared, then, coming to associate Tío Bruno with the sinister story. He began to think of him like a devilish creature made of man, tall and thin as his demonic sounds ran through the forest, glowing green eyes showing him the way to innocent souls he would devour.

The only noise Tío Bruno actually made came from his knuckles rippling over wood, the long hallways carrying the eerie sounds of sorrow only Dolores could detect.

Dolores’ hand clenched in anger when her little brother and cousin destroyed the red armchair she so loved during their impetuous play fight.

But her grip eased again when a few days later, Tío Bruno could rest his weary back on it as he sunk on the cushion with a relieved sigh, kicking up his legs.

Tío Bruno was making up entirely new stories, now. He talked about ‘telenovelas’ to his rats, their whiskers perky and alert. The vibrations in the air were entirely detectable for the girl who wasn’t much of a child anymore, but a young woman.

Dolores wondered what ‘telenovelas’ were, tipping on them being a neologism her creative uncle had come up with. Or maybe it was the seizure-like vision that had imposed great messages of the future on his faltering mind a few days prior.

The plays he put his rats through became crazier and wackier over the years as he ran out of ideas in his isolation.

Mamá’s weather had been ferocious until her youngest brother Antonio was born, bringing new hope to the family like the rainbow that broke through the black clouds. Everyone was happy about the new addition to the family and the baby that Abuela hoped would mend her shattered heart.

All, except one.

Tío Bruno, or rather just Bruno, as Dolores preferred to refer to him when he was like that, sobbed in misery in his drunken state, mumbling dark tales from his past to himself. The hiccups that followed were not due to the liquor, Dolores thought, but the weeping for the possibilities her uncle had given up.

He mourned for the forsaken chance of being part of the newborn’s life.

Dolores couldn’t celebrate like the rest of her family, one ear always on alert for the hellish ramblings of the broken man slumped against a barrel, raising the bottle he had stolen even long after he had emptied it.

Dolores was scared for and of him, for the first time in her life, as he stuttered and stumbled.

The second time was when Tío Bruno was very sick, his wet breath rattling through his chest like the toy her toddler brother liked to play with, or a snake in a bush, using the sound to show the world it was stronger than it appeared.

Even though her uncle said he was okay, that he was perfectly fine, to himself, of course, Dolores asked her aunt for some more servings to help him in his recovery.

She could never face him directly, though. 

She left the food by the wall next to her room so that she would have an explanation for why it was there if her uncle didn’t take it.

The meal had helped, Dolores thought with joy, although her face was a mask while she sat at the dinner table, only glancing at the family tree behind Abuela’s head every five minutes.

She upped her portions, in hope of making her uncle’s feeble steps heavier again.

Camilo always liked to copy people and put his shapeshifting abilities to good use. And as any sneaky little brother, he took advantage of the snacks Dolores had gathered.

They weren’t meant for him, she growled and kept herself from whacking him over the head for his unintentional malice.

One day, Isabela stood in front of the long-repaired bookshelf, her hands on her hips as she looked at the rows. “I swear there used to be more,” she said, disappointment in her voice.

Dolores hummed and gazed at the embroidery Mirabel and she had been working on.

Tía Julieta emerged from the kitchen, back bent and a large basket in her arms. “That’s what I’m thinking about the plates. It’s like they disappear into thin air!”

“Maybe it was a ghost?” Dolores asked to their amusement, thinking about sand falling hushed to the floor.

It was a game she was playing. A game of risk to see how much she could hint at the man behind the walls before the secret came out.

It helped her deal with it all, much like the thought that she was simply insane, and just bemoaning her beloved uncle’s death all those years ago.

The insanity reached a new high when Dolores heard dangerous cracking and the boogeyman in hiding climbing on top of a ladder with metallic items in hand. They clanked ungracefully against each other.

“But Hernando, please be careful!” a shaking voice cried out to another, although they were one and the same, “I tried a new recipe for the spackle so that it sets better!”

“I can do anything, just you watch!” the deeper contortion spoke decisively, a wet smack of a clumpy mixture hitting the wall.

Dolores hoped the man inside the walls was basing his characters on something that was anchored in reality. She hoped the stranger just missed the care of his eldest sister and the confidence of the other.

She didn’t dare to think he had truly lost his mind in loneliness.

Dolores tried to tune out the noise that became more intense and bolder over the years. It was as if the hermit thought he lived in pure safety of never being found in his parallel world of fantasy.

But once in a while, he was too raw to ignore, especially when she heard him pray, thoughts logical and stringent as he comprised them into verses meant for a saving, higher power.

Dolores bowed down on her knees and prayed with him, her way of showing her presence in an empty room.

The house was destroyed.

Dolores hoped the voice in her ears had truly just been an incorporeal, undying ghost when she looked out over the dust and debris.

Because now that she couldn’t rely on her hearing anymore, only her eyes could relieve her soul.

She was afraid of finding the broken body that might lie underneath the rubble.

"Yo, I knew he never left, I heard him every day!" she burst out, full of joy and amazement to see her uncle dance out in the open, hopping around like a fawn. And it wasn't only her who could see him, it was Abuela, Mamá, Papá, Tía Julieta, Tío Agustín, Mirabel, Luisa, Isabela, Antonio—

She didn't feel remorse in any way at how Camilo rubbed his upper arm where she had forcefully elbowed him because she had been right all this time!

Since the beginning of the end.

"I did what I had to do," Dolores breathed but her voice was much more decisive, much more pronounced than it had ever been. Perhaps, losing her Gift had opened up more possibilities she had never considered and it might have diluted traits she had punished herself for.

I have to speak up.

Abuela’s expression contorted into one of anger and exasperation. Dolores expected her to chuck the towel away, as she tightened her grip around it. The older woman glared at Dolores, but she met her gaze evenly, with her back straight, the picture of poise Abuela had always demanded of them to be. Dolores suppressed the urge to grin at how Abuela was losing the very regality she had propagated.

But Tío Bruno had told her to be kind, so the younger woman wouldn’t tear at the grave wound she hadn’t let heal.

“But— Even though you were a child when Bruno left, you should have known, you should have expected that…,” Abuela grappled, and Dolores let her fish for the correct words to say, “What he did was beyond irrational!”

‘I’ve kept your secrets, Abuela,’ was what Dolores wanted to say to defend her passivity, ‘Didn’t Tío Bruno deserve the same?’

But she let a beat pass before she blinked and curtly and somewhat challengingly replied: “Was it, though?”

Abuela scowled so deeply that the crow’s feet and wrinkles around her nose resembled the cracks of their previous home. She looked very old and weary at that moment but nonetheless intimidating. This was the Madrigal matriarch, about to explode on anyone and anything that came her way.

Despite it all, though, Dolores saw the hurt and guilt behind her eyes.

“Dolores—!” Abuela growled but Tío Agustín tried to steer her away, his hands carefully placed on her shoulders. Dolores wasn’t sure whether he thought he was handling a frightened tapir or a ferocious jaguar.

“Okay, Abuela…,” he said tentatively, his mouth strained and the veins in his throat flared.

“No, this is serious!” she shouted and ripped her arm away again, not disrupting the inferno of a glare she was directing at Dolores.

“Let’s all calm down, alright?” Mirabel begged and stepped in front of Luisa who was about to break down from the stress, looking deceptively small despite her large frame.

Their heart-to-heart about pressure must have done wonders for their relationship, too, Dolores supposed.

“I’m sure that Tío Bruno will be… fine. He’s lived on his own for ten years and he seemed normal when I found him in his hideout,” the younger girl continued, a chuckle worming itself into her voice that was supposed to lighten the mood, “Ah, well, a little crazy maybe, but, you know, the good kind of funny.”

Agustín’s mouth fell open and he stared at his youngest daughter in disbelief. “Mira…, you knew where was as well?”

Mirabel flinched and her hands shook when she looked at her father. “I,” she tried to explain, stretching the word with a high pitch that she always had when she had something troublesome to admit, “I didn’t tell anyone because I was thinking of the Miracle and, well, Tío Bruno. He didn’t want to be found by… uh.”

She looked sadly at Abuela and everyone in the room could fill in the blanks, the implication too obvious to overlook.

Abuela swallowed as if she were biting down the pain a knife had dealt her, steadying herself on the table.

“Mirabel,” a different voice spoke from the door, Tía Julieta standing under the stone arch. She was holding a tray with an empty cup and a steaming pot on top. It looked like it would slip from her hands because her full attention and disbelief were trained on Mirabel.

But before the arrangement clattered to the floor, Tía Julieta stumbled over to them, setting it down near Dolores. She cupped her hands around her daughter’s cheeks, searching for an explanation in her eyes.

“You… you didn’t know about that?” Mirabel mumbled, trying to make eye contact with her grandmother, or anyone, really.

Dolores had known, but she left her cousin hanging. It would be stupid to fuel the argument that would soon break out. That always broke out.

“You thought you couldn’t trust us?” Tía Julieta asked, her voice breaking. 

“What? No, nothing like that! Everything just happened so fast, and I was really just trying to save the Miracle before it was too late!” Mirabel defended, hoping to ease her mother’s guilt.

“I was just— hnng!” the younger girl huffed, trying to put her desperation into words, “I only mean that he has spent so much time on his own already that some of what he’s going through right now could be related to it! It’s a big change for him to… to just, err… talk to people again.”

Tío Agustín tapped his chin that Dolores could swear was quivering. “Yes, but the doctor told us not to leave him alone, so we have to adjust—”

“What?!” Abuela suddenly barked, her cheeks swollen red and eyes wild. She gripped Agustín's shoulders and almost shook him so violently that he fell.

“Huh, did I say something wrong—?” Agustín choked as he stared at the old woman, enduring her desperate movements without recoiling.

“Señor Ramírez said not to leave him alone?!” Alma growled, her voice breaking faster than their home.

“Ay, Agustín! But he is alone right now!” Tía Julieta exclaimed, trying to ease her mother back.

“But I swear he’s asleep! I don’t think he’d want us to invade his privacy—” Tío Agustín defended, but Abuela cut him off once more.

“I’m going to him right now,” she stated and picked up her skirt to tramp away.

Then, the door leading to the garden was all but kicked open, and Dolores saw her mother stomp inside, leaves and twigs in her hair, dress coated gray, and a duffle bag was thrown over her shoulder. 

“Where’s Bruno? What’s wrong with— Ah, Agustín, did you find the doctor? What did he say? What does my hermanito need?! I’ll go get it, I swear I’ll make it this time!” Pepa rambled, new streams of tears flowing freely from her wild eyes, one gust of wind away from screaming her head off.

“Pepi, please slow down! No panicking, now,” Félix stumbled after her, out of breath with a basket of his own, filled with clutter from the rubble of their home.

Dolores cocked her head to the side in interest, trying to distract herself from the turmoil that connected the people inside the room.

“Is he okay? Where is he, Juli?!” Pepa shouted and fell against her sister, almost dragging her down.

“Guys, please calm down!” Mirabel cried, clenching her fists and waving her arms around like an overlooked coach on a playfield.

Agustín approached Félix to put some distance between himself and Abuela who was helping Julieta with her sister. “What’s in there?” he asked, pointing at the basket. 

“Just some items we could recover. They belong to Bruno—”

“Ay, Luisa, are you okay, corazón?” 

Dolores shut her eyes when her taller cousin broke down in tears. “I just want Tío Bruno to be alright!”

“We really should—”

“Pepa! I—”

“We could never be—”

“I know it’s my fault, I let this happen—!”

Dolores’ family was a work of art and most definitely a work in progress, but the young woman had had enough. There was just too much noise and chaos that didn't help anyone.

So, quiet as a mouse, she took the tray with the tea and made her way over to the staircase, climbing it with inaudible steps she had practiced. 

How could Tío Bruno still be asleep with all that madness going on if he had even let himself relax in the first place? 

She was done with listening and enduring it all. Now, she took action.

When she stood in front of the door to the room the Guzmáns had let her family spend the night, she knocked, the sound pattern at the front of her mind. It had been following her for ten years like a broken record.

She balanced the tray on one hand, raising the other to touch the wood.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

There was one more beat missing, she thought, but gently pushed down the handle to step through.

The first thing she saw was a nest of blankets and pillows she imagined Tío Agustín had used to make his brother comfortable. There were still many mattresses, one of which Dolores had slept on. However, they were stacked on top of each other, now, to imitate a generous bed.

She looked closer and realized the safe haven was empty.

One glance to the side and she found her uncle, sitting by the window and perched on the hard sill. It seemed like he was shying away from warmth like it burned him instead, thinking only pain was what he deserved.

Or, maybe, an unpleasant way to sit was the only secure routine that could comfort him after spending years on furniture that had been bulk garbage at best.

“Oh, h-hey!” Tío Bruno spoke when he noticed her, folding one leg over the other and sitting up straight, just like he used to do when she had been younger, and adults seemed infallible to her.

Now that she could really look at him without the poncho, Tío Bruno did seem too thin. He was tired, yes, and sickly-looking but it wasn't at all like the horrible disfigurement she had thought would crawl out of the house.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, unsettled by the lack of her response. He tugged the white shirt that had slid off his shoulder back in place.

Oh, Tío Bruno. It’s not me who needs help.

There was so much going through her mind. How could she address their bond that had and hadn’t been?

“I’m here now,” she promised, unaware of the emotion that coated her voice.

Tío Bruno had the audacity to look at her with pity and understanding. His arms unclenched and he smiled at her. It was a familiar smile from the past. The smile of stories and laughter, of cuddles on a red armchair and a soothing voice.

“I know, Lolita,” he said lovingly, offering her the space next to him on the sill.

And before her heart could soar, Dolores promised herself to never let him go again.

She skipped over to him and made sure he drank the tea while they caught up, blowing on it when it was too hot for him. Tío Bruno laughed and centered the bow on her headband, never able to accept a kind action without giving one in return.

And despite the vicious shouting downstairs, niece and uncle rejoiced in old tales and spun new ones, made of hopes and dreams to face the future.

Together at last.