Following the trail of cempasúchil, Marisol stepped into Mictlan. The air was heavy and still, yet it hummed faintly — alive with unseen whispers. Before long, she found Jaime and Jimena waiting at the path's end.
They regarded one another in silence, each carrying the same quiet awe. Something within them had changed. Their eyes were clearer, their bearing lighter — as if the weight of their old selves had finally been shed.
The sense of freedom was intoxicating, and for a moment Marisol felt she might take flight. But she grounded herself in the rhythm of her steps, letting the soft petals beneath her feet remind her where she was. The marigolds glowed with their golden fire, beautiful and almost sacred. It felt wrong to crush them, yet each step released a scent — sharp and sweet — that seemed to guide them onward.
The three walked together until the path divided in two directions. Mist curled gently, the flowers splitting like rays of sunlight across the dim land.
They exchanged knowing looks. Their roads diverged once more — each drawn toward a separate call echoing deep within their hearts. Their gods awaited them, and yet… before duty, there was something more.
Reunion.
Marisol's hands tightened at her sides. Her heart thudded against her ribs — not with fear, but with aching anticipation. She followed the path the cempasúchil carved for her, the trail winding through clusters of spectral homes painted in vivid hues: green, orange, red, and yellow, as though memory itself refused to fade.
From shadowed doorways, ghostly figures peered out — transparent flesh stretched thin over hollow bone. Their eyes glowed faintly with expectation, tiny wisps of light coiling inside empty sockets. Some reached toward her, not to grasp, but in greeting — quiet gestures of hope and recognition.
A heaviness settled on her shoulders, gentle but undeniable. The burden of her purpose — of her calling. Marisol exhaled and lifted her chin.
She would carry it. Gladly.
For beyond the marigolds, she could feel what waited for her — something she had yearned for all her life.
Something worth the weight.
The trail of cempasúchil finally ended at a pair of wide double doors. The scent of herbs hung thick in the air — sage, copal, and flor de manita — familiar, grounding. As Marisol approached, the fragrance burst outward, filling her lungs with warmth and memory.
The doors opened.
Two figures stepped into the light — spectral outlines draped over luminous skeletons, their shapes more defined than any spirit she'd seen along the way.
Her breath caught in her throat. Tears welled before she could speak. The faces before her — loving, gentle, and forever etched into her heart — were no longer just memory.
"Mamá… Papá…"
Her voice broke as she ran forward, falling into their arms. Though their embrace was cool and faintly translucent, the warmth she felt was real — it burned straight through her chest.
She sobbed, her cries of joy echoing down the quiet street, drawing curious glances from the nearby shades. Her parents only smiled.
"Come inside," her father murmured, placing a steady hand between her shoulders. Her mother's fingers entwined with hers, light and smooth as smoke.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs. Bundles of rosemary, mint, and marigold hung from the ceiling, swaying gently as if greeting her. Clay pots lined the shelves, filled with powders, oils, and tinctures that glimmered faintly in the half-light.
Marisol felt like a child again — safe, cherished, whole. She smiled through her tears, asking a flood of questions about this strange world of the dead, her words tripping over one another.
Her mother laughed softly, answering in that familiar tone of patience and wisdom. She ran ghostly fingers through Marisol's hair, smoothing it as she always had when the world felt too heavy.
At some point, her father slipped away and returned with a steaming clay cup. The rich scent of cacao filled the air, bittersweet and comforting. Marisol took a sip, her heart softening further — every swallow another piece of her soul finding peace.
She melted into her mother's spectral arms, not minding the faint translucence of her skin or the gentle shimmer of colored bones beneath. They glowed faintly with hues of the herbs she once tended — green, gold, and violet.
For the first time in a long while, Marisol felt complete.
---
Jimena and Jaime followed the trail of cempasúchil until it curved toward a small, sweet-smelling house. Its walls shimmered faintly like glazed sugar, and a bright pink door waited at the end of the path. The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, honey, and cinnamon — the same aroma that once filled their childhood home.
The door creaked open before they could knock.
"¡Mis niños!" cried a familiar voice.
A slightly plump, ghostly figure rushed toward them, her translucent dress fluttering like smoke in the still air. Her face, though faintly glowing and skeletal beneath, was unmistakable. Their mother's laughter — that booming, unrestrained joy — rang through the empty street as she threw her arms around them both.
"You're so big now," she said, spinning them with a strength that felt both impossible and deeply familiar.
Jaime froze at first. His throat tightened as his heart fought to believe the sight before him. The woman — his mother — touched his face with a cool, tender hand. Her sugar-bright bones glimmered faintly beneath her skin, soft light pulsing.
"Son…" she whispered.
Something inside him broke loose. "Mom!" Jaime sobbed, throwing his arms around her, clutching the fragile specter as tightly as he could — as if the strength of his embrace might hold her in this world.
Her laughter turned into quiet weeping as she pressed her face against his hair.
Jimena hesitated, tears already spilling down her cheeks. She let him have his moment — just a heartbeat — before she stepped forward and joined them.
The three of them clung together on that quiet street, framed by the pink door and the golden trail of marigolds. The smell of pan dulce and cacao surrounded them, warm and nostalgic, as if the world itself was trying to hold them close.
They wept without restraint — the kind of crying that shook the spirit free. Every sob carried their years of grief, regret, and longing back into the open air.
Ghostly figures gathered nearby, drawn by the sound, and then quietly turned away. A soft reverence filled the street. Some spirits smiled as they departed — faint glimmers of hope lighting their hollow eyes.
For the twins, that single embrace was everything they had lost and everything they still carried within them — the sweetness of memory, the ache of love enduring even beyond death.