Día de Muertos was very different after Miguel's visit to the Land of the Dead. With Ernesto de la Cruz's crime revealed and their m'ijo safe, Héctor had been welcomed—albeit somewhat cautiously—back into the Rivera family. The first time Héctor stepped onto the marigold bridge and didn't plummet through into empty space, he had almost been brought to tears. Having Imelda and Coco beside him had been like a dream, and he wasn't completely sure that he was not, in fact, in heaven.

The second year was, if possible, more illuminating. This time when he stepped up to the checkpoint and smiled—a touch uncertainly, he had to admit—at Sofía, the machine didn't stop at one ding. Instead there was a long pause, then the light flashed in an irregular staccato pulse and the matching beep was soon a shrill ring.

"What's happening?" he asked, shocked and afraid. "Did I break it?!"

Sofía laughed, an unfamiliar bubbling sound, and pressed a button. The flashing light continued, but the beeping stopped. "No, Héctor," she said, her voice warm and pleased. "It's your ofrendas."

"O-ofrendas?" Héctor blinked at her, not comprehending.

With a smile, she gestured to him, beckoning him around the desk. He moved slowly, cautiously, and gasped when he saw the fluttering images moving past the screen. Picture after picture, most cropped, pixelated versions of the one on the Rivera ofrenda, but some unfamiliar to him as well: him in charro suits, or playing a guitar, or singing with his head back and a grin on his face. Pictures from early tours with Ernesto.

"You have so many, Héctor," Sofía said, gripping his arm. "The living remember."

"Héctor, what's wrong?" Imelda, no doubt worried waiting on the other side of the checkpoint, approached the desk and cast an uncertain look at him behind the desk. "Is it broken?"

"No, mi amor," he said. Stumbling out from behind the desk and into her arms. "They...they remember me, Imelda. There are so many of them…" He felt tears sting his eyes and buried his face into her shoulder. She held him as he cried, as he came to terms with this influx of memory, and continued to hold his hand as he thanked Sofía.

They exited the checkpoint together, where the rest of the family was waiting, and crossed the bridge with linked hands.

On the other side, the Rivera family was thrumming with life and music. Miguel had grown almost half a foot, and had a new blush charro suit. Socorro, over a year old, toddled on chubby legs between her brother and cousins, laughing a musical little laugh. There was song and story and laughter, until very late when the children were ushered to bed and the adults began to clear up. The dead Riveras began to head home, but Héctor hung back.

"I want to go see my other ofrendas," he said in response to the curious looks. "I want to make sure it wasn't a mistake."

Touched by his uncertainty, Imelda linked her arm with his and smiled at the rest of them. "Head home, mi familia," she said warmly. "We'll meet you there."

They nodded, a little nervously, and left the two alone. Héctor, overwhelmed with gratitude, folded her in his arms and touched his forehead to hers.

The long hours of the early morning were spent trekking here, there and everywhere. They crossed huge distances with ease, his hand curled around hers, finding little ofrendas with his photo in almost every town they passed. There were copies in museums and music halls. Tucked in school rooms and in the closets of musical children. Each and every ofrenda decorated with cookies in the shape of guitars or slightly burnt pastries or bottles of liquor. More offerings than he had ever imagined.

He took every offering there was. Piled his arms high, then started loading up Imelda too. She eventually made a sort of basket out of her skirt, blinking in shock at the multitudes of offerings he carefully placed in. When they made it back to the checkpoint, he had seven guitars slung around his back and too many treats to count in their arms.

"Héctor, we can't…"

"They're not for us," he said. His eyes were dark and veiled, unfamiliar. After two years of reunion, there were still so many expressions and moods that she didn't recognise. "Please, Imelda, trust me."

They made it through the border, and he led her confidently to the bridge. To the murals. To Shantytown. She hesitated for a moment at the bridge, her eyes wide as she looked at the mournful sketches that lined the walls, and he paused with her.

"It's okay, mi amor," he murmured soothingly. "It's safe…"

"We came here when we were trying to find Miguel," she replied. "This place of dust and loss and forgetting. They were friendly to us, Héctor, I think they sensed our worry and grief."

A grim little smile touched his lips. "Ay, they are familiar with the look."

They passed beneath the bridge. Héctor moved confidently, his feet finding the solid boards and landing in stable places. Behind him, Imelda wobbled a bit before trying to plant her boots where his had landed before her.

The little rickety homes were dark, the lights extinguished as the sun had risen, and Héctor raised his voice in a shout; "Mi familia! I've brought a little offering!"

The words bounced off the shacks before them, before a curtain pushed back and a faded woman with wisps of grey hair floating around her face poked her head around. "Héctor?"

"Tía Chelo!" Héctor grinned, visibly relieved. "I brought you some offerings!"

She eyed him suspiciously, her mouth a thin line. "We haven't seen you in so long, Héctor, what brings you back?"

"I wanted to share." Héctor brandished one of the many bottles of tequila. "It's too much for just me and my…" He hesitated, then grinned and bounced on his heels. "Ay, Tía Chelo, I haven't introduced you! It's mi diosa, mi amor, mi vida! The one I told you about! My wife, Imelda." He gestured at Imelda, pride and joy and gratitude on his face, and Imelda waved meekly.

His exuberance and bouncing had brought more skeletons to the light, some visible only as a subtle gleam of eyes in empty window frames, some as grey skulls peeking from tattered curtains or crooked doors. Chelo approached, a little warily, then smiled warmly and caught Héctor's forearm in one hand.

"It's good to see you again," she said. "I'm so glad you're still around." Tears prickled at his eyes again, and he grinned. There was relief in that grin. He had been so afraid, so utterly convinced that they would hate him. Resent him, for finally managing what he had been working at for so many years. He let out a choked little laugh when she added, "Looks like your schemes finally paid off, eh, Cousin?" and dropped one eyelid in a wink.

The sight of Chelo so close brought the others out of hiding, and he smiled around at his other family. There were gaps in the crowd, faces that were no longer present, and he allowed the prickle of guilt each absence inspired. He'd missed saying goodbye because of his fear. That was no one's fault but his own.

"I brought enough for everyone," he said, with a wobbly smile. "Drinks and food and instruments. All sorts of things!"

He handed things out to everyone. Imelda smiled and nodded and offered the basket of her skirt to anyone who wanted to pick through. It was wonderful seeing the joy on their faces. When everything was gone, Imelda caught Héctor's sleeve.

"I want to see your home," she said softy when he turned to look at her. "I want to see where you lived all those years."

He winced, but nodded. Their fingers entwined and he led her along rickety walkways out onto the water. His shack was dark and quiet, apparently unlived in, and he knocked on the door before letting them in.

The back wall was open, looking over the water. There was a hammock hanging limply in front of the open wall, but otherwise the walls and floor were completely bare.

"They've cleared it out," Imelda said softly, stepping into the room.

"No, mi amor." Héctor propped the door shut again, leaning his forehead against it. "I never had anything here. It was never really a home…"

There was a brief pause, then Imelda wrapped her arms around him and kissed the slope of his scapula. "Come on, Héctor, let's go home," she murmured. "And next year, we'll take a trolley to carry more, eh?"

He laughed and turned, holding her close and kissing her, feeling the curve of her smile beneath his lips. It had been an amazing Día de Muertos.