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“Look at this family, a glowing constellation; so full of stars and everybody wants to shine. But the stars don't shine, they burn, and the constellations shift. I think it's time you learn you're more than just your gift.” - All Of You, Encanto
For the longest time, Bruno had a love-hate relationship with his door. It didn’t escape his notice, even at the age of five, that his sisters were smiling on their doors with their eyes closed, whereas his image depicted open eyes and what seemed to be a frown at first glance. It took ages of staring for Bruno to realise the image on the door was smirking; it was faint, but it was there.
He still wasn’t sure what to make of it, forty-five years later.
The image on his door looked strong, powerful and sure of himself. Everything Bruno wasn’t. That carving felt like one big lie.
He’d heard villagers mutter about how it was one more bad omen, one more indication that Bruno was simply bad luck, that he was bad. It helped start a rumour that he never smiled.
Still, he’d shivered when he watched his door turn dark. Like it or not, it was still his. His door, his room, his tower. So much importance was placed on their doors, Bruno just wished his didn’t look so spooky. It looked even more out of place when it went dark, like some sort of imposter.
Fitting, he remembered thinking as he hid in the walls. An imposter door for an imposter prophet.
But then Casita was gone and their doors were mostly smashed to little pieces. Bruno didn’t dare look for his, too preoccupied with his little space behind the walls, but now Casita was back, the Gifts were back, their doors were back.
And Bruno couldn’t say he was in any kind of hurry to see his door.
Only, you know, he was Bruno. He wasn’t exactly used to getting a vote.
He could see from the courtyard that the doors looked just like they did during the Ceremonies; they were there, but there were no carvings. Golden magic coated the doors like glitter, waiting to be accessed and formed into a carved image of their respective Madrigals.
Next to the teal nursery door was a brand new brown door with an M on the doorknob. There was no golden magic, no carving, but it was unmistakably Mirabel’s room, a room of her own at last. Bruno was delighted for her, and a little relieved that so much of the evening’s attention was taken up by it, all of the Madrigals crowded into her room and gushing over the decorations and Mirabel clinging to her parents and crying happy tears.
If Bruno teared up at the sight that was his own business, thank you very much.
Everyone else seemed so eager to get to their rooms, to open their doors again. Even Alma, usually so serene, kept glancing towards her door with a smile, her eyes shining.
As usual, Bruno felt out of place. He didn’t share that excitement, he didn’t look towards his tower, to that dim staircase and ugh, there was going to be so many stairs and so much sand, and those creepy carvings on the wall and the pitch-black vision cave, and that damned image of himself on the door, hands raised as if in warning; all powerful and fake.
He didn’t want to fall back into that role again: hidden in the dark, reaching for impossible expectations. Out of sight, out of mind had been the attitude towards Bruno’s room and towards Bruno himself for a long time.
He didn’t want that again. Not when he knew things could be better.
A pair of little hands wrapped around one of his and Bruno was startled back to reality. He looked down to find Antonio smiling up at him.
“I can walk you to your door too, Tio Bruno,” he said, sweet as sugar and as miraculous as one of Pepa’s rainbows. He lowered his voice and added, “It’s less scary when someone’s with you.”
“Ay, Antonio, I can wait,” Bruno said with a forced chuckle. For the first time, his gaze went towards his tower…
And he froze.
The staircase leading to his door, even from the other end of the house, looked smaller. It wasn’t dim; he could see the faint glow from the door, but also candles on the walls.
“Mijo?” Alma’s hand rested on his back. Just like that, Bruno had the attention of the rest of his family, something he still wasn’t used to.
Mirabel left her parents to stand next to him; she looked just as surprised as he was.
“Oh,” she said softly. “It’s different.”
Bruno nodded; it was a quick, jerky movement, stiff as a puppet. He knocked on the bannister and the nearest pillar, and his head, muttering “Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock; knock on wood.”
Bless Antonio, he knocked on the pillar and looked at Bruno expectantly.
Mirabel took his other hand with a hopeful smile. Bruno would forever admire her optimism, her sheer perseverance and force of will.
“It will be different,” Alma said, like she was making another promise. Maybe she was.
With his whole family around him, hand in hand with his niece and nephew, Bruno finally approached his door. Every step seemed to take hours and, as they got closer, he swore he could hear a faint hum from the magic.
The staircase really was smaller; five whole stairs shorter to be precise. The candles softly shone, casting light on the photos and paintings they’d hung during rebuilding, and the door shimmered steadily.
Antonio and Mirabel let go. Julieta squeezed his arm and Pepa clapped him a little too hard on the back, making him wheeze a little, but he didn’t mind. His entire focus was on the door.
It had been such an unnerving door for decades. It had been off limits for ten years straight. His room, his tower; his safe haven, his prison.
Things were different now. Bruno was different. Who was to say this wouldn’t change too?
Taking a deep breath (and holding it), Bruno reached out and grasped the doorknob.
Just like when he was five, there was a flash of golden light, but no green-tinged visions followed. He heard Mirabel quietly say “Ooh,” and Alma’s sigh of relief, and Pepa’s little hum, so much like Dolores’s.
Bruno opened his eyes, squinting nervously at first.
The carving was different. It still read Bruno, it still glowed gold; its hands were still raised and it was still surrounded by hourglasses and swirls.
But the face was different. The eyebrows weren’t furrowed, but relaxed. The eyes were still wide open, but didn’t look so fierce. The smirk had been replaced by a small, somewhat shy smile.
For the first time ever, Bruno thought this image actually looked like him, not someone else’s idea of what he should be, or what they wanted to believe about him.
Just him. Just Bruno.
For the first time in a long,
long
time, Bruno looked at his door and smiled.
