For the Rivera household, Sundays were the quietest days of the week.

There was no ringing of hammers, no whirring of the buffing wheel. The ancient manpowered sewing machine sat idle. The chairs and stools were abandoned. The workroom was silent, dust rising in slow eddies and visible through the sunlit windows.

Sundays were a day of rest. This view was slowly becoming archaic in the Land of the Dead, but the Rivera matriarch insisted that no work be done outside of the most necessary tasks. Sundays were set aside to unwind after a long week, as well as prepare mentally and physically for another just around the corner. The zapatería was closed; the family was not to work on orders, but instead spend the day on their personal projects or indulging in hobbies. This meant something different for everyone, but like many close-knit families with limited space, they often found themselves in the same room.

The front parlor was the main Sunday congregation spot for the Riveras. It was a small room, unused during the week except to entertain the odd guest: an old friend, a distant relation, a regular customer— even a neighbor. It was kept in pristine condition, and often the cleanest room in the entire house. There was no eating or drinking in the parlor; no muddy shoes, potted plants, or messy inventions were allowed past the threshold. Mamá Imelda dusted it on Mondays, trusting no one but herself to take proper care of the room and its belongings.

The parlor had once been a bedroom, repurposed by Imelda after purchasing the house with the money she'd made fixing shoes. She had been alone, having died first; a clerical error made it unclear if she had any family besides her husband in the Land of the Dead. She had made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, going so far as to threaten the poor agent who had helpfully offered to find him for her.

The house was large but the rooms small, the exception being the large front room that had become the workshop. The parlor was no exception, tiny and yet somehow just large enough to fit the furniture that had been crammed into every corner. It spoke to Imelda's excellent arrangement skills; she had never lived in a very large home and had learned from her own Mamá how to best fit a family's belongings into a small space.

This Sunday found the family in the parlor as per the usual, with the addition of Héctor. He hadn't been cleared by Imelda to live there yet, but he was an almost daily fixture in the household that came and went as he pleased, much like a rather exuberant housecat. This was his first Sunday with them; Imelda hadn't allowed him to pass the threshold without combing his hair and washing the dust from his bare feet, and even then had been reluctant to let him through.

She had now taken to ignoring him, seated on one end of the long sofa that took up a wall to itself. It was a replica of the one that had once sat in the living Rivera family's parlor—no, more than that, for it was a copy that she and her brothers had spirited over the marigold bridge on the twin's first Día de Los Muertos. By an unfortunate accident they had arrived a few years ahead of schedule and were still strong enough to heft the sofa all the way from the Rivera home to the zapatería, Imelda leading the way and guiding them around obstacles. The fabric was faded, and the left corner scratched from shoving it through the customs gate, but it was still serviceable long after its living world counterpart had been tossed for a newer model.

She sat in her favorite spot, the corner that she'd commandeered while it was still her parent's sofa. She held a throw cushion on her lap, her deft fingers slowly embroidering an elaborate array of blossoming roses on its front. The afternoon sunlight played across skirts, and there was no movement from her other than the constant rhythm of her hand as it pushed the needle through the cream-colored cloth.

The twins sat in the middle of the sofa, Oscar to the left and Felipe to the right. Once, long ago, the three of them could fill the cushions. Now, they were all skinny enough that the twins took up a single cushion to themselves with room to spare. Connected at the hips, their heads were bent over a shoe that was admittedly a good fifty years out of fashion; in vain, they tried again and again to make the laces wrap snugly around one of Felipe's old pocket watches.

A shoe clock, they had told their sister over lunch, was certain to be a hit. Why fumble with a pocket watch or search for a clock tower when one need only look down to tell the time? They had, of course, forgotten about the modern convenience of cellphones and wristwatches; one of the downsides of dying was that the mind tended to be stubborn, sticking itself in a certain time period. But no matter—they were determined that the shoe clock would be their crowning achievement… if they could only figure out how it was supposed to be tied!

Héctor sat to Felipe's right, his chin slumped sullenly in one hand. Imelda had insisted that the twins sit between them, cutting him off and making it easier to forget he was even there. While he was there to learn about the family he'd missed for so many years, it was no secret that he would have liked to learn about them with his lovely wife tucked against his side. It irked him that, while she continued to make concessions for the rest of the family, she kept her distance. Even as she allowed him back into their lives, it seemed as if everything was answered in a resounding 'no'.

No, he couldn't sit next to her at the table.

No, he couldn't twirl her up into a dance every time he felt happy or excited.

No, he wasn't allowed to kiss her.

A part of him understood that she'd been without him longer than he'd been without her. After all, he'd never tried to forget her, allowing his affection to burn as brightly as it ever had. She had spent years burying it deep within her, refusing to acknowledge his existence until that fated Día de Los Muertos. But he wished that, if there was no way to get back into her good graces, she would just tell him! Every so often she'd send a smile his way, or laugh at one of his goofy jokes the way she used to, and he'd foolishly let himself start hoping again. Hoping that this time she wouldn't push him away, wouldn't throw one—or both—of her brothers between them, wouldn't comment on the lateness of the hour.

He wouldn't mind being on good terms with her for the rest of his existence, living side by side as friends—well, he would, but with Imelda he'd gladly take whatever he could get. If her love had cooled enough to be unkindled a second time, he'd understand. But there was no way for him to find out if she wouldn't let him try! Even now, he was currently plotting a way to grab her attention, but nothing came to mind that wouldn't bother the boys. It didn't help that he was reminded a little too much of their courtship, when her papá would force the preteen twins between them on the couch.

At least in those days, Imelda had been just as eager to bridge the gap.

Tía Rosita sat in the window seat across the room, cheerfully mending one of her skirts with her sewing box at her side. Her feet dangled a few inches from the carpet, but she didn't seem to mind as she swayed habitually, a silent song playing through her head. She had given up humming on her entry into the Rivera household, but while Mamá Imelda could keep her quiet, she had never been able to silence the melody of her heart.

Her brother sat next to her, propped up in his favorite recliner. It was also a copy from the living world; the Department of Family Reunions had issued a weight limit on declarations after having to fight the armchair through the gate; there had been an accident, resulting in an agent's arm snapping free of his elbow joint and dislocating a woman's eye by mistake. That had been the end of furniture allowances, but they were content. It had formed to his body before he died, and now his bones sank deeply into the mold created by the bulge that decades of Rivera women's cooking had gifted.

He was supposedly reading the paper, though in reality he was half-asleep. The paper drifted closer to his face every moment, his breathing deepening into soft snores and sleepy grunts. No one paid him any mind; this was a common Sunday occurrence. The only thing missing was Mamá Coco gently prying the paper from his hands, folding it on his lap and giving his forehead a loving kiss.

Victoria sat on the ottoman, her skirts tucked demurely around her as she bent over a book. Her bookcase was cattycornered behind her, one of the parlor's more recent additions. It was stuffed to bursting with books from both worlds: copies of famous living works, new ones that only the dead were privy to, papers, novels, and collections of poems. Her current read was Juan Rulfo's newest release, a collection of short stories dealing with various experiences in the Land of the Dead.

Even as occupied as it was, the room was quiet with subdued activity. Rosita finished her skirt and folded it, closing up her sewing basket before turning to look out of the window behind her. Julio snorted abruptly, shifting under the newsprint before letting out a long sigh. Victoria muffled a laugh with her hand, smiling as she read over a funny passage about alebrijes beneath bridges. The clock on top of the bookcase chimed the hour. Oscar cursed when the lace he held snapped, and Imelda lightly smacked his leg in reproach. Héctor sighed, his long fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the sofa's arm.

Oscar muttered to himself as he tried to tie the two halves of the lace back together without leaving a noticeable knot; Felipe ignored him, instead looking askance at the luckless lover. He sympathized with Héctor, thinking—not for the first time—that Imelda was being rather ridiculous. She had too much of their mamá in her, and was stubborn beyond belief about the silliest of things. She didn't like to see reason, especially when it came to herself; it had taken poor Héctor nearly six months to get her to agree to one date when they were young. He sometimes privately wished that his cuñado would just pick her up and cart her off to the bedroom to sort it out there and then. Putting her on the spot was often the only way to get her to acquiesce.

Still, he would never say so aloud. Imelda was his older sister, and therefore the one in charge. He and Oscar had been brought up under Mamá's iron fist, their father often too busy with his work to concern himself with matters of the home. And Mamá, busy herself, had left them in Imelda's care as soon as she was old enough to handle them. From their earliest childhood, one adage had ruled: it is Imelda's way, or no of them cared much to put their foot down, the result often not being worth the battle. No, he was not their husband—¡gracias a Dios! —and that fight was better left to the one who'd started the war to begin with.

Even so, he did pity Héctor. He felt bad that his poor brother in law was so miserable, banished to the opposite side of the sofa. And while he wasn't interested in the fight, that didn't mean he couldn't remove himself as an obstacle….

Felipe nudged his brother, careful to keep the movement to a minimum so that Imelda wouldn't see. Oscar looked up from the lace, catching his eyes. Neither of them said a word; as twins, they didn't need to speak to have a full conversation. They were the closest people they knew, fully in tune with each other to the point of accidentally matching their movements without even thinking. Felipe let his eyes do the talking, a smirk spreading over his face that was quickly echoed by Oscar as the latter straightened in his seat. A glimmer of the old mischief that had punctuated their childhood years shone in their expressions. Oscar bowed his chin in a small, barely perceptible nod.

"Hermano," Felipe began, casting his eyes at Imelda as he rose, "you know, I think that lace is done for."

"Hermano, I think you're right." Oscar joined him, his fingers nearly reaching the ceiling as he stretched. "Perhaps this is a prime time to start our journey into the world of Velcro?"

"Perhaps… or we could find some stretchier laces. Remember those curly ones that all the children had not so long ago?"

"Or maybe some of those athletic laces, that you don't have to tie at all!"

"Good idea!" They both turned to their sister. "We're going down to the store before it closes."

"It's late," she replied, eyes trained on her neat, even stitches. "Why don't you two put that silly thing away already? How many times have I told you: you're shoemakers, not inventors. All you do is waste material on those hairbrained schemes of yours."

"Hairbrained!" Felipe frowned at her. "Hmph!"

"I wish I had a tongue," Oscar added contritely, "so that I could stick it out at you." Héctor watched them with some interest; the rest of the family ignored them, used to their mild squabbles. They were siblings, after all, and everyone aside from Héctor had personal experience with how annoying those could be.

"We're grown men," Felipe pointed out, motioning between his brother and himself. "I guess we can do as we please." Imelda scowled up at them, eyes narrowed before she blew out a breath and turned back to her work.

"Como quieras," she tsked, shaking her head. "Pointless waste of time. I should start making you pay for every piece of leather you take out of the shop."

"Come on, Felipe." Oscar ignored her blithely, turning and motioning for his twin to follow. "Let's get going, before they close for the day." He winked at Rosita when she looked up from the window, jerking his head quickly at Héctor as they left the room. In another moment, the front door slammed.

Rosita stared openly at the sofa, a puzzled frown pursing her lips. He looked at Imelda, who didn't bat an eye as she hunched over the cushion, needle flying steadily. He caught Rosita's eye and she stared between them, first at the husband, then the wife. Her mouth turned up in a little 'O' of surprise and understanding; she grinned, smoothing her skirts on her lap before winking at Héctor. He blinked at her uncomprehendingly. Rosita tilted her head, neck popping as she tried to move him with her eyes. His brow furrowed; he looked around him, trying to decide what she was gazing at so intently. She sighed and made a little noise in her throat, her hands moving as though she could push him from across the room.

"Ahem… a-hem…. Mm! Mm? Mmhmm!"Victoria looked up from her book, sighing at her aunt before looking over at Héctor as well. "Mmmm…." Héctor shook his head, looking to Victoria with a shrug. "Ahem!"

"Rosita, what is it?" Imelda looked up from the cushion with a frown. Rosita froze, caught in the act.

"I—er—there's a frog in my throat," she blurted, coughing for effect. "Ahem! Ahem!"

"Then go and get some water, dear." Imelda rolled her eyes as she changed her thread.

"S-Sí, Mamá Imelda." Rosita slowly rose to her feet, frowning at Héctor as she shuffled from the room. He looked more confused than ever, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. She was gone long enough for Victoria to turn back to her book, the room falling silent once more. Héctor stared blankly out the window until a movement in his peripherals had him turning to the archway.

"Psst!" Rosita motioned to him from the kitchen, peering anxiously at Imelda before pointing. Héctor shook his head again and she sighed, body slumping before she mimicked pushing something with her hands, her two index fingers coming together in midair. "Move!" she mouthed, pushing at the air again.

"¿Qué?" he whispered as loudly as he dared. She clapped her hands to her cheeks before shaking her head, walking back into the room. She sat on the window seat, mouth pursed as she looked at Julio. The newspaper was fluttering with the force of his exhale, the top of the second page flapping in and out of view. It was a list of movies playing at the local cinema, along with short reviews by esteemed critics.

Rosita's eyes lit up in glee. She snatched the paper from her brother's head, reading over the list before grinning widely. She stood, motioning to Victoria. Her niece looked up, irritated at being pulled from her book a second time. Rosita motioned to the couch, where Imelda sat in her own little world and Héctor watched them with amused bafflement. She pointed not-so- subtly to the movie reviews; Victoria swallowed a sigh before closing her book and nodding reluctantly.

"Mamá Imelda, Victoria and I have been meaning to go to the cinema for some time now. There's a wonderful romance playing, so I think we'll go today."

"It's getting too late for you to go out."

"But Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe just left!" Victoria protested.

"And they're men. When you're married, you can go out after dark too." Héctor sat up, eager to help.

"I'll—" Before he could finish, the women took one look at each other before forcing the legs of Julio's recliner down. It hit with a rusty bang, forcing the old man forward and shaking him awake.

"¿¡Qué pasa!?"

"Papá, we're going to the cinema." Héctor sat back down, slightly hurt.

"We… we are?" He followed Victoria's eyes to the sofa, where Imelda stared at them, mouth agape at their open defiance.

"Victoria!"

"Papá doesn't mind, do you?" Victoria loomed over him, crossing her arms and resettling her glasses. Julio shrank away from her, skull slipping into the collar of his Sunday shirt; she looked a little too much like her mamá when she did that, all schemes and spitfire.

"I—er—" If there was anything Julio hated, it was making waves. He would much rather go right back to sleep, but he was stuck between his sister, his daughter, and his mother in law. He couldn't make one happy without angering the other two, and a quick assessment made the situation all too clear. He certainly didn't like being roped into the women's plans, but it was easier to face one female's wrath as compared to two. "No, I don't mind."

"Julio." He wilted at the sound of his voice, spoken in those stern tones he knew too well. He was saved by Rosita, who grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet in one quick movement. Like the twins, he often found it easier to just go along with whatever his sister said.

"It's fine!" Rosita insisted, smiling cheerfully at her. "Don't worry about a thing, Mamá Imelda. Héctor doesn't mind staying a little longer to keep you company, does he?" She turned her thousand-watt grin to him, hopping a little on the balls of her feet. Finally her plan sunk into his skull; his eyes widened at he looked over to Imelda, who was staring at him in alarm. He smiled, wiggling his fingers at her.

"No me importa!" he assured them. "We'll keep nice and cozy, right Imelda?"

"I—" Imelda turned back to Rosita, her eyes begging them not to go.

"We'll be back before bedtime." Victoria grabbed Julio's other arm. "Come on, Papá." She tossed her book onto the ottoman, and the two all but frog-marched Julio from the room.

"See you in a bit," Julio called over his sister's shoulder, although he sounded unsure.

"Have fun, you two!" Rosita added with a little wave. When they crossed the threshold, Imelda came unstuck and half-stood, reaching towards the door.

"Now, wait just a minute!" The front door shut, and she collapsed back in shock. She blinked a few times, processing what had just happened, before hazarding another glance to the opposite end of the sofa. Héctor grinned sheepishly, patting the cushion next to him.

"I guess it's just you and me, huh?" Her expression turned cold and she huffed, frustrated at being outdone and abandoned by her own family. She turned towards the window, giving him the proverbial cold shoulder. Maybe if I just don't look at him, he'll realize that I want to be left alone. There was silence, the ticking of the clock loud in the absence of the family. Is he actually going to behave?

Rustle.

There was a movement, her right hip dipping as the cushions settled. She froze, poised to move the needle through the fabric. No! I will not give him the satisfaction of looking! She was resolved to ignore him; he didn't deserve her attention when he was acting out like a child. The moments passed slowly, each minute stretching until it was endless. She couldn't focus now, her entire being on high alert as she waited. How close was he? What was he doing? Was he looking at her? She thought he was, but it was hard to tell. If she'd had flesh, she would have begun sweating; her curious nature had always gotten the better of her, and now it was in full conflict with her willpower.

She looked.

He smiled.

She gave him her best glare, wondering how on earth he'd managed to get halfway across the middle cushion in one move. His hands were in his lap, head tilted inquisitively as he watched her without a word. Not even her fiercest scowl could dim his good mood, and she turned moodily back to the cushion.

"Hmph!" She prepared to change her thread again, inhaling sharply when he scooted closer. Now she could see his pinstriped pants, hovering at the edge of her vision. She turned her head until it was gone. Héctor hummed, shifting on the seat and inching towards her. She slammed the cushion onto her lap, raising her eyes to the ceiling. Dios ayúdame….

A movement caught her eye and she turned back despite herself. His hand was creeping along the cushion, index and middle finger walking their way up to her lap. She waited until he got close to smack it, crushing it against the couch.

"Ow!"

"Keep your hands to yourself, músico!" she spat, her cheeks burning despite there being no blood to rise to them. He nursed his fingers with a frown, and she looked back to the cushion only to feel something brush against her leg. She hesitated, praying that it wasn't what she thought it was. It happened again, more deliberately; this time, there was no denying it.

"And your feet!" He sighed, and she went back to her sewing. Perhaps now—no, for his head landed on her shoulder, jaw leaned intimately against her clavicle. She let out a breath, resisting the urge to grind her teeth together.

"Must I name off every body part you have?" she hissed between clenched teeth, taking his chin in her hand and shoving it away.

"Imelda…." He pouted, puppy-dog eyes imploring her to have mercy. She remained adamant, the pitiful sight doing little to move her. He swapped tactics, leaning amorously on the cushions and propping his long legs on the arm. "You know," he purred, tracing the sofa pattern with one finger, "it's getting dark. Should I… light us a candle?"

She turned her head slowly, looking him over before raising her arms. She paused for effect, frowning, and then clapped twice. The overhead light flickered on, fluorescent bulb illuminating the room.

"Oh." She rolled her eyes, snipping the thread and tying it off. "You know what?" he said suddenly, looking up into her face. "You're a little glum, mi amor. I know just the thing to cheer you up. Besitos!" he sang, when she didn't answer. She cringed at the word, and before she knew what she was doing the cushion whapped against his skull, knocking it askew. He righted it quickly, eye rattling like Ping-Pong balls in their sockets.

"No!" She was just as shocked as he was; she hadn't meant to hit him. Or, at least, it wasn't premeditated. She'd acted on instinct, swinging out without thought. It was the same impulse that had driven most of the boys away when she was younger, throwing whatever she had at them when they tried to flirt with her.

He crossed his arms, sulking. She ignored him, turning her head as she placed her needle on the little magnet mounted to the wall, the cushion going in the nook between the sofa and the floor. She didn't want to use it as an accidental weapon again. Not that she minded hitting him with it, but she'd been embroidering those flowers for nearly two months of Sundays. It would be a shame for all that work to go to waste, just because she'd split the cushion beating him over the head.

"Not even a couple?" he asked after a short silence, thumb and index finger going together.

"Héctor…" she groaned, rubbing her temples. To him, besitos meant covering every inch of her face in a thousand tiny kisses, nearly smothering her with his affection. He used to do it all the time when they were younger, to both her and their daughter. Coco had loved it, her giggles filling the house as he smushed his face against hers, peppering her cheeks. She… well, she'd gotten used to it, and it certainly didn't feel bad, but— if she gave him an inch, he'd take a mile.

She briefly thought of getting up and moving to the armchair or the ottoman, out of his reach and leaving him with no way to follow. But to give up would be to accept defeat. If she moved, he would win. Entirely unacceptable. She was not going to run away from her favorite spot in the parlor just because he was being an annoyance.

"Isn't it time for you to go home?" she asked callously, dodging the question.

"What? I can't leave you now, not after I promised to keep you company."

"Trust me, you can."

"And break a promise? Never!"

"You—" She cut herself off, swallowing hard. She had been close to really hurting him. It's not as if he'd been trying to break all the promises he'd put in those letters, after all. He died. He died. The two words resonated somewhere behind her ribs, the phantom pain of a heartbeat.

"Imelda." The sound of her name brought her back to the present. He watched her, smile fading as he caught the pain in her eyes. "Imelda… please." She sighed.

"Héctor—"

"Mm…" He held up a single finger. "¿Sólo un besito?" he asked hopefully. Oh, what can it hurt? If it'll get him to shut up.

"One." She graced him with her sternest maternal glare. "Just one." He nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, of course! Just one!" He shifted closer, hips wiggling as he bridged the gap between them. She forced herself to stay still, hands in her lap as she watched him for any sign of deceit. "Okay! Here we go!" She waited one minute. Two. The clock chimed quarter-till.

Neither of them moved.

"Well?" she asked, clearing her throat. Am I actually nervous?! "What are you waiting for?"

"I—uh—" He gulped, grin wobbling at the corners of his mouth. "I… I'm waiting for you to close your eyes, silly!" He laughed a little too loudly, running a hand through his hair.

"Is that so." He's as nervous as I am. The thought was a shock to her. When had they become such children? It wasn't as if they'd never kissed before. In fact, she was almost certain he was less nervous about their first kiss!

"Uh… yeah! So, go ahead and close them." She obeyed, feeling vulnerable when she could no longer see what he was doing. She heard him shift and felt herself dip further as the distance between them closed. "Er…. Okay," he warned her, and she stiffened when she felt his breath on her face. It had been a long time—too long—since anyone was this close to her.

His mouth was almost warm.

She hadn't been expecting that; after all, he was just a skeleton, all bone and marrow and—not warm things. But on the other hand, she shouldn't have been surprised; weren't Rosita's hugs suffocating and toasty? Weren't Oscar and Felipe's hands comfy when they rested them on her shoulders? Why should he be an outlier?

She softened into the kiss, pressing back just enough for him to feel it. She'd never kissed anyone as a skeleton—unless Pepita counted. It was definitely strange, malleable and not at all what she expected. Yet… she liked it. A spark flickered to life in her chest, warm and jumpy.

He pulled away too soon for her liking; she cursed herself for even thinking it. Her eyelids seemed heavy, but she managed to open them and found him staring at her, a dreamy look on his face. She blinked, suddenly shy as she averted her eyes; she remembered that look from their first few kisses. They were such children back then. It didn't seem right that she could reduce him to that now, as an old woman. He opened his mouth, and she knew he was going to ask even before he spoke.

"U-Uno más?" That was just like him. Didn't she warn herself that he'd take a mile? One kiss—he'd never be settled with that. It only angered her that she wasn't settled with it, either. She nodded shortly, excusing herself by blaming curiosity. She wanted to feel that strange, pliable kiss again.

"One more." He needed no further prompting, quickly claiming her mouth again. It was intimate and warm without the zealousness of passion—innocence. It was an innocent kiss. A questioning kiss. A kiss she could easily back out of, if she changed her mind. Not that it was going to be changed anytime soon. This time, she caught him as he drew back, breathing heavily. "Uno más." His eyes widened.

"Imelda—" He cupped her jaw in both hands, holding her still to press kiss after kiss against her willing mouth. "Oh—" He trembled with emotion, gasping out the words. "I wanted—I can't—oh—mi Imelda—mi amor—te amo—"

She pressed herself against him, running a hand up into his hair; she didn't even need to breathe, and she still couldn't catch her breath. The spark within her snapped and sputtered into a flame, stealing what little air he didn't take from her nonexistent lungs. She wasn't kissing just anyone; this was Héctor, so familiar and yet… not. She remembered this, this feeling, his soft words mumbled almost incoherently, the feeling of his sturdy body against hers…. And, at the same time it was so strange, their teeth clacking together with no tongues to speak of, her ribs sliding against his with nothing but the bodice of her dress to keep them apart, the way his fingers slipped beneath and even into her jaw if he wasn't careful. It was new and unfamiliar, more than a little disconcerting at times.

But it was still Héctor.

"Héctor, please—" She broke away, panting and shaking a little herself.

"¿Sí?"

"P-please—" His hands ran soothingly over her hair, fingers exploring the intricate coils.

"Anything, mi vida, anything; tell me what you want—"

"I-I… I want…" she paused, feeling a little foolish. "Abrázame." He chuckled warmly, pulling her close before wrapping his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. She sighed, clutching him tightly to her and closing her eyes. This was what she had wanted, for so many long years; he was here, solid and secure and staying. He wasn't being forgotten, Ernesto wasn't going to come and drag him away again—it was him and her, them, for as long as they were remembered, perhaps even beyond.

Death had parted them, but they were together again now, and now was what mattered.

"Sorry we're late, we ran into the tíos and—" Victoria stopped herself, a hand on her mouth as she stepped through the archway.

"What?" Rosita peered over her shoulder, Julio looking around her waist as the twins stared over her head. "Oh!" She whispered, smiling proudly. "How cute!"

"Shh!" Oscar urged her. "You don't want to wake them."

"I guess they won't be wanting these," Julio added, holding up the bag of cocadas they'd brought back with them. "I'll just put them in the kitchen."

"Oscar, what do you say we take our work to the bedroom?"

"Right behind you, hermano."

"I guess I'll go to bed, too," Rosita said, taking one last look into the parlor before hurrying upstairs. Victoria waited until her father joined her.

"Do you think this is it, Papá?" she asked softly, smiling.

"It's definitely a start." They smiled at each other. "Your mamá would be happy to see them this way."

"She'll see soon enough, I assume."

"Yes, you're right… well, I'm off to bed. That corn is sitting heavily." He reached up to kiss her cheek fondly. "Goodnight, mijita."

"Goodnight, Papá." She waited until he left before stealing into the room for her book, still on the ottoman where she'd left it. She tucked it under her arm, turning again to the sofa where her grandparents lay asleep. Héctor lay on his back, one arm around his wife's waist while his other long limbs spilled off the sofa. Imelda lay on top of him, her cheek against his sternum; she noted happily that her abuela's arms were wrapped tightly around his ribs, holding him close even in sleep.

"Goodnight," she whispered to them, feeling strangely at ease. Perhaps it was only a start, and perhaps tomorrow Imelda would be embarrassed to know they'd all seen her sleeping on top of him. Then again, perhaps he might join them for a true family breakfast. But it felt right, somehow; it was as though Imelda were the right shoe and he the left, finally together as a true pair. As she left the room, taking care not to let her skirts swish loudly against the carpet, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief: things might turn out well for everyone after all.

She came back a moment later, her arms extending into the room and clapping twice, leaving them to truly rest in peace.

Afterword: this is my attempt at fluff. (shrug)

Clap On! (the sound of Imelda slapping Ernesto with a shoe)

Clap Off! (she hits him again for Miguel)