When Miguel was six years old, he discovered Ernesto de la Cruz. It was during a school trip to the cemetery with his favourite teacher, Señora Diaz, the woman in charge of performing arts. He had managed to get into one of her drama classes, so long as he didn't go near the music room. Before the field trip, Abuelita Elena had scoured the permission slip with a fine-toothed comb to ensure there would be no stops at the plaza. The rest of the class had not been pleased that the lunch break had been at the town hall instead.

At the cemetery, the class was split into small groups and shown around. When they passed his family's gravesite, Miguel excitedly told his peers all about his deceased family, especially his Mamá Imelda, who had built a shoe empire. Most of the other children in his class wore Rivera shoes, and they seemed suitably impressed at his lineage.

Then, one group at a time, they reached the central mausoleum. Gleaming marble with twisting wrought iron gates propped open to welcome the children inside. And they were allowed, much to Miguel's surprise, to see the crypt, the portrait, the guitar. Señora Diaz had explained that de la Cruz was a musician and actor, who had grown up right here on the streets of Santa Cecilia. That he had—with a pointed look at Miguel that he utterly missed—performed his first show in the Mariachi Plaza, and gone on to find fame in Mexico City.

Miguel was utterly spellbound. The story wormed its way beneath his skin and into his soul. Hanging on the wall, beneath the charismatic smile of the long-dead musician, was the guitar. Blank inked designs soaked up the light through the barred windows, while the opalescent pearl inlay and white finish shone with delicate rainbows. Miguel desperately wanted to touch it.

And then, Señora Diaz pulled out a mini CD player and played de la Cruz's most family song. The quick beats and rich warmth of his voice fanned the spark of intrigue into a flame of passion. He had to learn more, he had to experience more of this feeling.

When he returned home that day, the melody was still repeating on a loop in the back of his head. It was familiar and completely new, and part of him wondered if he had heard it in a previous life. On entering the central courtyard he saw Mamá Coco sitting on a bench outside the workroom, wrinkled face tilted up towards the sun, eyes peacefully closed and a content smile on her face. He darted up to her, threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.

"Good day, m'ijo?" she asked, without opening her eyes. Her memory was increasingly muddled, and so he wasn't totally sure that the m'ijo she referred to was Miguel or maybe Enrique or even Abel. It didn't really matter. She loved all of her family, even if she wasn't sure who they were.

"Yes!" The revelation of his new hero swam behind his lips, but he managed to swallow them back. In a home of no music, a musician would not be well received. He could only imagine Elena's face if she found out. "I told my class about Mamá Imelda."

"Lovely." She patted his cheek. "She'd be so pleased to hear it. You'll be needed in the workshop, Enrique, let your abuelita rest."

Miguel's smile faded a little at the corners. Confirmation of his suspicion still cut deep. He nodded and kissed her cheek again. "Love you, Mamá Coco."

There were supplies stacked up outside one of the outer walls, near the bedrooms, and he had found it was a perfect place to get up into the now unused attic space. When he'd first found it, it had been dusty and cobwebby, It wasn't tall enough for him to stand up straight, but he had swept up most of the dust and didn't hesitate to lie down directly on the wooden floor.

For a moment, he pushed his ear to the floor, eyes closed, listening for voices below. When he didn't hear anything, he lay back flat on his back, keeping his eyes squeezed shut, and raised his voice to the song in his head. The words not fixed in his mind yet, he sang intelligible sounds, slurring the ones he wasn't sure of, lifting his voice to a shout when he sang the final, "Remember me!"

Ceci's home had built up significantly since Héctor's last visit. Now it filled almost the whole block, having swallowed his old studio long ago, and expanding up several floors. There was a huge artist's warehouse there now, pain and plaster splattered here and there. A good plaque beside the front door proclaiming "Official Tailor for Ernesto de la Cruz's Sunrise Spectacular". It stung, reading those words, and he shook off the feeling as though it was a light fall of snow on his shoulders. No point dwelling, had to move forward.

He knocked on the main door—now a huge rolling shutter—and fiddled anxiously with his phalanxes as he waited for someone to answer. The pause was longer than he had hoped, but eventually a young woman opened a small panel in the corrugated iron. She was utterly unfamiliar, brown eyes cool as she looked at him.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for…" He combed his memory, cheesy grin inching wider by the second, as he realised he didn't know Ceci's last name. "Señora Ceci?"

"Is she expecting you? She's very busy."

Héctor shook his head, lowering his eyes. "Can you tell her I came by? It's Héctor, I used to live next door."

Her eyes softened, warmed a little, and he tried very hard not to see the pity that lay beneath it. "Give me a moment." She shut the panel, imperfectly, so he could just see a glimpse into the workroom beyond and her back as she walked away. He pulled off this straw hat, teasing at the woven fibres. One came off in his fingers, leaving a frayed edge that tickled his metacarpals. The workshop was completely still, bolts of colourful cloth leaning against a table inlaid with slits and measures. He remembered a similar table back in the Rivera workshop before he'd left, where Imelda—lacking her brothers' gift of measuring length—would lay out bright cloth and guide Coco's hand to cut it. The memory warmed him and by the time Ceci bustled up to the door, his cheesy, charismatic grin had faded to a small, wistful smile.

"What can I do for you, Héctor?" she asked as she threw up the rolling door with a clatter.

The sound jolted Héctor from his reverie and his grin emerged full force, his hopeful optimism beaming like the sun. "I need a favour, Ceci. Maybe a lot of favours."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh? I'm intrigued. Come in and sit down." She turned her back to him and walked off to the other side of the room. He followed, a tad sheepishly, and lowered himself onto a stool. There was a harsh rattle as his foot knocked a pedal beneath the table and she whirled towards him.

"Sorry, sorry." He drew his feet up and tucked them against his body, smiling sheepishly.

"Tell me more about these favours, Héctor," Ceci said. She pulled down a collection of sketches, skirts and suits just visible on skeletal outlines. "I'll work while you talk."

"It's just little things. Letting me borrow some costumes here and there." She glowered at him and he hurriedly added, "I'll bring them right back."

She gripped the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses up into her wild red hair. "Do you realise it's Ernesto de la Cruz's Sunrise Spectacular next week?"

"Yes." Another piece of straw came free in his hand and he tucked it between bony lips, worrying at the frayed end with his teeth. "It's Día de Muertos as well. That's what I need the costume for."

"I suppose. But only for the early evening, Héctor. I need it back before the show starts."

He nodded emphatically, grin stretching and eyes widening. "Yes, yes, whatever you want!"

"Fine. It's a deal." She extended one hand and he shook it, jamming the hat back on his head as he did. The loose piece of straw between his teeth jittered with the movement. When he tried to pull away, she gripped harder and pulled him close. "I'm giving you one chance and one chance only."

"Understood." He chewed on the straw, aware that his skull marks were glowing with his embarrassment. It bit deep, being reminded of all the promises he had broken.