Chapter Text
Music is the sound of the soul.
Every person carries their own song—woven from their passions, the people they love, the moments that leave a mark. The good and the bad. It's a melody that can't be replicated or stolen, a truth that lives deep in the bones.
Samuel’s life moved to the rhythm of music. It filled his thoughts from the moment he woke, threaded through every task he did, with a hum on his lips. He wasn’t born in Encanto—the lush, hidden valley just beyond the river in Colombia. He came from somewhere, surely, but that memory was as distant as his parents’ faces. A fact he knew , even if there were no words left to put it on paper.
He was eight when the church in Encanto found him wandering. He’d stowed away on a caravan from a few towns over and slipped off before anyone noticed. A ghost of a boy, arriving by chance—or maybe something more.
Now, nearly a decade later, Samuel still walked the same cobbled streets, though his feet knew the way without thinking. Mornings came early at the church. The bell tower chimed out across the valley at dawn, stirring birds from trees and calling the faithful to prayer. He wasn’t required to join the service anymore—Father Alonzo had stopped insisting once Samuel turned fifteen—but still, he came. Not for the sermon. For the silence after. Despite growing up under the church’s hand, he was not an overly religious person.But there was always music here. Not hymns, necessarily—just the kind of quiet that made space for sound. Footsteps, wind through the open doors, the creak of old wood, the way a single note could hang in the air like it had nowhere better to be. It wasn’t holy, not to him. But it was honest.
He liked those minutes when the chapel emptied and the light poured through the high stained-glass windows. The echo of the final hymn still lingering in the rafters. That was when the music came easiest. Just after everyone else has gone. Quiet, honest. Just his fingers and the old wooden guitar the sisters had given him when he was ten.
Back then, he’d been all sharp elbows and quiet defiance. He didn’t speak much. Barely ate. Refused to sit still. But he’d hummed, always hummed—snippets of lullabies he couldn’t name, melodies that came to him in dreams. One morning, Sister Inés had set the guitar in his lap and said, gently, “Then learn to say it this way, mijo.”
He did. And later, when even the music felt too heavy to carry in his throat, he found another way to speak.
It started with a festival—one of the traveling acts passing through town. A woman with silver hair signed alongside the street musicians, her hands painting songs in the air. Samuel watched from a distance, rooted to the stone path like he was seeing magic for the first time. The way she moved—fluid, expressive, like melody turned into shape—it struck something deep.
Afterward, he asked Sister Inés about it, and she returned the next day with an old ASL textbook from her time studying in Bogotá. The pages were worn, the spine cracked, but Samuel read it cover to cover. Then again. And again. Until the shapes made sense. Until his hands could speak when his mouth refused.
It wasn’t about silence. It was about safety. About having a language that didn’t ask him to be loud in order to be heard.
Later that afternoon, Samuel left the church behind, guitar case slung over his shoulder and a small cloth bundle tucked carefully under one arm. Warm bread still clung to the linen, and the scent of cinnamon followed him down the winding dirt path that led into the trees.
The forest behind Encanto wasn’t large, but it was dense and old, with twisting roots and canopies that sang when the wind moved just right. It had long since become his favorite place to disappear. To play without judgment. To breathe. And somewhere within its quiet shade, waiting among the mossy stones and half-buried ruins, was Bruno Madrigal.
Samuel didn’t remember the exact moment they’d gone from awkward strangers to something softer. At ten, he’d snuck out with his guitar slung over his back, determined to practice without anyone listening. That’s when he’d seen him—Bruno, the man from every whispered story, every sharp turn of conversation when adults thought children weren’t paying attention. Samuel hadn’t understood why they feared him. The man looked like a shadow, yes, with wide eyes and more bones than meat, but he hadn’t been cruel. Just startled. Just alone.
They ran into each other three more times before either of them spoke.
Now, it was routine. Normal, even. Samuel would come with something small—a baked treat, a storybook, a new chord he was struggling with—and Bruno would be waiting with that nervous half-smile of his, eyes lighting up when Samuel signed hello.
Because now Bruno knew how to sign back.
It had started slow. A few words, a clumsy finger-spelled phrase. Samuel had been patient, never pushing. Just teaching. Showing Bruno the shape of language with his hands, the same way Bruno had taught him to coax songs from stubborn strings.
When Samuel stepped through the curtain of ivy and into their usual clearing, he saw him there—Bruno, sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, eyes closed, hands resting in his lap. At the sound of Samuel’s approach, he opened one eye and smiled, sheepish and warm.
Samuel held up the bundle and signed, Good bread. Still warm. No raisins.
Bruno signed back slowly, fingers stumbling a bit on raisin , but getting the shape close enough. Merciful angel.
Samuel grinned and sat beside him, pulling the guitar from his back. The light filtered through the canopy just right here—gold and green, like music waiting to be written.
“New song?” Bruno asked aloud this time, voice rough from disuse.
Samuel just nodded, tuning the strings by ear. He didn’t need to speak. Bruno already understood.
Samuel played for a while—soft, thoughtful progressions that didn’t quite form a song, but carried emotion all the same. Bruno listened with his eyes closed, head tilted slightly as if trying to catch something the rest of the world couldn’t hear.
When the last chord faded, Samuel didn’t set the guitar down. He just held it close, like a shield.
He signed, Can I ask you something?
Bruno looked at him, serious now, nodding. Always.
Samuel hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then, with deliberate care, he signed: If you had the chance to leave—to stop hiding—would you?
Bruno didn’t answer right away. His shoulders stiffened, breath catching just slightly.
I don’t know, he signed back. It’s not easy to want something when it feels impossible.
Samuel watched him, fidgeting with the strap of his guitar. Then: I might have the chance to leave Encanto. Work. Travel. Something more.
That landed heavy in the space between them. Bruno’s expression didn’t change much, but his hands curled slightly in his lap.
Samuel’s next sign came slower. But I don’t want to go without you.
He wasn’t sure what he expected—laughter, dismissal, fear. But Bruno only looked at him with that wide, unreadable gaze and said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he signed: I can’t go. Not yet. I still… I don’t know how to be out there.
Samuel nodded. He already knew. It wasn’t an ask, not really. Just a truth he needed to say out loud, even if only in silence.
Bruno reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against Samuel’s sleeve—brief, but grounding.
Then I’ll stay. Samuel’s hands moved before he could talk himself out of it. Not forever. But long enough.
Bruno blinked fast and looked away. But he didn’t pull his hand back.