@stolensongs || starter ||
âThis isnât a dream, is it?â
Shocked by the appearance of the skeleton man before him, Miguel lifted a hand to give himself a harsh smack to his own face. Then promptly repeated the motion with his other hand, and the other side of his face, in hopes that if he was dreaming, the action would wake him.
When that didnât work, he cautiously reached up as high as he could to deliver a light smack to Hèctorâs face.
âNope. Youâre definitely real!â
The feeling of smooth bone beneath his hand was enough to tell him that. As much as Miguel wanted to leap for joy at the sight of his great great grandfather, he also wanted to know why he was seeing said great great grandfather. He hadnât died, as far as he knewâhe would have remembered if he had, heâs sure of it.
âBut, Papa HèctorâŚwhat are you doing here?â
   JUST ONCE, HĂCTOR would like to experience a DĂa de Muertos that came with no complications or adverse effects, nothing to come back and bite him in the rear. Heâd actually, until now, had a pretty good streak in that regard â two whole years where heâd been able to cross the bridge without incident, visit with his family, and then return, smoothly as that. But tonight, the universe or whatever powers-at-be ( or, perhaps, just his own foolishness ) seemed to think that his good luck couldnât last TOO long.
   THE SUN WAS rising in the Land of the Living, and HÊctor was hopelessly stuck.
   HE SUPPOSED THAT he should have listened to Imeldaâs urging all along. Sheâd done this more often than him, after all, and knew of the MISHAPS that could arise if rules and traditions werenât expressly followed. Sheâd tried to tell him to get a move on, to hurry up so they could all get home without incident, and what had he told her? You go on, querida, Iâll catch up. Heâd just wanted to stay with his great-great grandson, even if Miguel couldnât see him, for just a few more minutes â the kid had been playing a brand-new song to his little sister, and HĂŠctor had been so proud of the progress heâd made. It hadnât occurred to him that heâd lost track of time until it was too late.
   HEâD BEEN TRYING to quietly sneak out of Miguelâs room â all he needed was to get back home to the Land of the Dead, and there was no need to trouble his grandson to do that â when a familiar voice had stopped him in his tracks. HĂŠctor tensed, surprised as well as worried; then, very slowly, he turned around, his facial expression torn between bemusement and sheepishness.
   â CHAMACO â â
   SCARCELY HAD THE word left his skeletal mouth than did the rest of his sentence get cut off as Miguel gave him an abrupt little slap to the face. Affronted, he gave his head a little shake and reached up to lightly swat the boyâs hand away. â Ay, ay! Hands to yourself â Iâm real, Iâm real. â Now that the initial surprise of their unexpected reunion had started to ebb a bit, HĂŠctorâs facial expression softened a bit, and though the smile that touched his features was somewhat strained, it was genuine all the same. â It is good to see you, Miguel, â he said, â but, uh â well, thatâs the question I have, actually. How can you see me? â
   WITH A SIGH, he reached up and thoughtfully, nervously rubbed the back of his neck. â Listen â hereâs the thing. I ⌠kind of ⌠missed the bridge back home. â