Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun bleeds a heavy, marigold orange across the cracked pavement of Santa Cecilia’s plaza. Twelve-year-old Miguel Rivera balances on the edge of an upturned wooden crate, his hands animating wildly in the warm air. Gathered around his feet is a small, captive audience of neighborhood kids, their sticky fingers clutching half-eaten pieces of pan dulce.
"Listen closely," Miguel whispers, leaning forward so his shadow stretches over them. "Because this is the secret history of the Riveras. Long before the shoes, before the leather, there was the music." He pauses for dramatic effect, watching a younger boy’s eyes go wide. "My great-great-grandmother, Imelda, is a queen, right? But back in the 1910s, she is the wife of the most brilliant, up-and-coming musician in Michoacán—Héctor. He doesn't just play the guitar; he makes it speak."
Miguel steps down from the crate, pacing with an inherent theatricality. "They aren't alone, though. Right beside Héctor is his absolute best friend, a guy with a voice like a silver bell, who you all know as the greatest of all time: Ernesto de la Cruz. Before the massive stadiums, they are just three young dreamers touring the dusty roads together, sleeping in train stations, playing for anyone with a few centavos. And when Imelda and Héctor have a little girl named Coco—my great-grandmother—they don't stop. They pack her up in a woven basket, cushion it with sheet music, and the whole family tours together. A caravan of pure melody."
The children listen, utterly rapt, but Miguel’s voice drops, losing its playful spark as the shadow of the legend darkens.
"But music doesn't always protect you," Miguel says softly, staring past the kids toward the distant towers of the church. "One day in 1925, everything changes. The tragedy strikes like a lightning bolt. They are in Mexico City, preparing for the biggest show of their lives. Great-Great-Grandmother Imelda is at the boarding house, watching little Coco, who is seven years old and practicing her embroidery. Héctor and Ernesto go out into the bustling market to grab some quick street food before soundcheck."
Miguel clutches his chest, mimicking a sudden, terrible pain. "But, alas! They are walking back, laughing about some lyric, when Héctor suddenly collapses to the cobblestones right before Ernesto’s eyes. He is gasping, clutching his stomach. Poisoning. Bad chorizo from a street cart. Ernesto screams for help, drags him to a doctor, but there is absolutely nothing anyone can do. The venom in the food takes him fast."
A quiet gasp ripples through the small crowd.
"Imelda and Ernesto hold a beautiful, devastating funeral," Miguel continues, his voice thick with a strange, inherited grief. "And the massive concert that is supposed to happen that night? It never happens. The stage stays dark. Even worse, the beautiful lullaby Héctor and Ernesto wrote together, 'Remember Me,' is completely erased from the setlist because it hurts too much to sing. Instead, Ernesto takes the stage weeks later and performs 'Heaven and Earth,' dedicating every single tearful note to his fallen partner."
Miguel sighs, kicking a loose pebble. "After that, the music dies. Time goes by, and the Rivera family completely falls out of touch with the De la Cruz family. Ernesto goes on to become an olympian figure in Mexican cinema and music, a god among men, while Héctor is forgotten. But get this—it’s like fate is watching. Exactly fifty years to the day after Héctor passes, Ernesto meets his own untimely end. He is performing in a massive stadium, hit by a giant bell that a stage worker accidentally drops right on top of him. Boom. Just like that, both greats are gone."
He leans in closer to the kids, his expression turning grim. "And because of that heartbreak, any music of their sort is strictly forbidden in the Rivera villa. Imelda bans every instrument, every hum, every whistle. She turns to shoemaking to support her daughter, and it becomes the family business to this day. But me?" Miguel taps his own chest, a fierce light in his eyes. "I secretly dream of becoming a musician like those two late greats."
The church bells chime, signaling the approach of dusk. The kids disperse, shouting goodbyes as their mothers call them home. Miguel waits until the plaza empties out, then darts down a narrow alleyway. He slips behind the family workshop, dodging the heavy scent of tanned leather and glue, and climbs a rickety ladder into the attic of the old tool shed.
This is his sanctuary.
He crawls inside, pulling a heavy blanket over the opening to block out the world. The dim space is illuminated by a dozen flickering prayer candles. The walls are a shrine, plastered with faded posters of Ernesto de la Cruz, old vinyl records he salvaged from the trash, and handwritten charts of his great-great-grandfather’s style. In the center sits a makeshift guitar, pieced together from discarded wood and wire. He picks it up, cradling it like a treasure. Every single day, his family discourages him. They pull guitars from his hands, they drown out his singing with the rhythmic thump-thump of cobbler hammers, but up here, in the quiet dark, he can breathe.
The reality of the Rivera household, however, is impossible to escape for long. The family is struggling financially this season; the cost of materials has skyrocketed, and the ledger is full of red ink. Yet, the upcoming Day of the Dead talent show in the plaza represents a beacon of hope for Miguel.
The next morning, the courtyard is a whirlwind of activity. The smell of fresh, sweet empanadas wafts from the kitchen, a temporary luxury amidst the financial stress. Miguel sits at the long wooden table, nervously picking at the crust of his pastry.
"So, uh," Miguel starts, his voice cracking slightly as he tries to sound casual. "There’s this talent show in the plaza for Día de los Muertos. I was thinking... maybe I could enter?"
Across the table, his older cousins immediately burst into snorts of derisive laughter, their mouths full of empanada. "You? Enter a talent show?" Abel teases, elbowing his brother. "What are you gonna do, Miguel? See who can shine a shoe the fastest? You'd lose to a toddler!"
"It's not about shoes!" Miguel protests, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.
The cousins don't know it's for music—they assume he's going to do some silly comedy routine or magic trick—but the mockery hurts all the same. Before the teasing can escalate, Abuelita Elena walks out of the kitchen, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. Her expression is ironclad.
"No one is entering any shows," she states firmly, her voice leaving zero room for negotiation. "We are not going anywhere on the holiday. We are supposed to spend the day together as a family, honoring our ancestors, not running around the plaza looking for attention. Family comes first, Miguel. Always."
Two days later, the air is thick with the scent of cempasúchil flowers. Miguel is tasked with helping set up the family ofrenda in the main living room. He carefully places orange petals in neat lines, his eyes wandering over the framed photographs of the deceased. He stops at the very top of the altar. There sits the ancient portrait of Great-Great-Grandmother Imelda. Beside her is a young Coco, and standing tall next to them is her husband. But his head is completely missing, cleanly torn out of the paper generations ago. Miguel stares at the jagged edge. He feels a pull in his chest, a desperate need to know the man who shared his blood and his curse.
He steps out into the courtyard to clear his head, the weight of his family's expectations suffocating him. No, he thinks, clenching his fists. I have to do this. He decides right then and there to enter the talent show anyway. He marches back inside, the acoustic guitar he secretly built clutched tightly in his hand. The family is gathered, arranging candles.
"I'm playing in the talent show!" Miguel announces, his voice ringing out, defying decades of silence. "Look at me! I’m a musician!"
Abuelita Elena gasps, her face contorting from shock to pure, unbridled fury. "Music? In this house?!"
"Listen to me play, please! Just listen!" Miguel pleads, stepping back as she advances.
But Abuelita doesn't listen. With a swift, angry motion, she snatches the handmade guitar from his arms and smashes it against the stone floor. The wood cracks, the strings snapping with a violent, metallic shriek. It lies in pieces at his feet. Something snaps inside Miguel. The grief and frustration of a lifetime boil over. With his dream shattered, utterly fed up with his family's stupid, suffocating selfishness, he glares at his heartbroken mother and his furious grandmother.
"I don't want to be part of this family anymore!" he screams, tears streaming down his face.
He turns and runs, ignoring his mother’s desperate cries echoing across the courtyard. Miguel sprints through the crowded, festive streets of Santa Cecilia, his breath hitching in his throat. He arrives at the plaza where the music competition is already underway, mariachi bands tuning their instruments and singers warming up. He desperately searches for a spare guitar, begging various performers, but everyone laughs him off or turns him away. A musician without an instrument is nothing.
Frustrated, he remembers the ofrenda. He remembers the photo. In his rush, his mind pieces together a detail he had overlooked. He pulls a folded, duplicate copy of the family photo from his pocket—one he had snatched from the room earlier. He looks closer at the center of the image, tracing the ripped edge where his great-great-grandfather’s torso remains. His eyes widen. The man whose face is ripped out is holding a very specific, highly ornate white guitar with a skull carved into the headstock. It is the exact, legendary instrument famously used by Ernesto de la Cruz. And Miguel knows exactly where it is. It isn't locked away in some public tomb. It is right back at the house, hidden away in his dad's den.
Decades ago, Ernesto had surprisingly left the guitar to Mama Coco in his will, a final nod to the family of his old partner. Coco, in turn, had gifted the historical relic to Miguel's father, Enrique. It sat there as a museum piece, forbidden from being played, but preserved. Risking everything, Miguel sneaks back to the Rivera villa. Slipping through the shadows of the workshop, he enters his father's quiet den. There, resting on a velvet-lined display mount, is the legendary white guitar.
"I'm sorry, Papa," Miguel whispers into the dark room. "I just need to borrow this. To save my life." He reaches out, lifts the heavy, perfectly balanced instrument, and slips out into the night.
Desperate for a quiet place to tune it away from his family's eyes, Miguel runs toward the moonlit town cemetery, where the thick blankets of cempasúchil petals muffle his footsteps. He finds a quiet, shadowed corner near the resting places of the ancestors. He sits on a stone ledge, grips the neck of the legendary guitar, and plucks a single, resonant chord to test the tuning.
TWANG.
A shockwave of golden, magical light ripples outward from the strings, blowing back the dust and the flower petals in the tomb. Miguel blinks, shaking his head. He grips the guitar and hurries outside to return to the show.
"Excuse me! Watch out!" Miguel calls out as he runs into a group of townspeople entering the cemetery.
But instead of dodging him, a man walks straight through him. Miguel stumbles, a cold shiver running down his spine. He turns around, gasping. He tries to grab a woman’s arm, but his hand slips through her skin like smoke. He is completely invisible, entirely intangible to the living people around him. They walk past him as if he is nothing but air. A soft whine sounds at his knees. Miguel looks down. Dante, the scruffy, stray Xoloitzcuintle dog from the alleyways, is looking right at him, tilting his head and wagging his tail.
"Dante?" Miguel whispers, kneeling down. He reaches out, and his hand solidifies against the dog's rough, warm fur. "You... you can see me?"
The dog barks happily, licking Miguel’s face. Surrounded by a world of living people who can no longer feel his presence, Miguel stands alone in the moonlight, holding a dead man’s guitar, with only a stray dog to witness his existence.