Jimena and Jaime sat side by side, basking in their mother's endless chatter — stories tumbling out as fast as the steam rising from the cups of cacao she had set before them. Each of them held a concha on a simple clay plate. The sweet bread smelled impossibly fresh, its sugary crust catching the ghostly light like morning frost.
They didn't touch it at first. Too much filled their hearts and their throats for them to eat.
Their mother sipped her drink, finally pausing between questions. Most of what she wanted to know was about their father. Both twins reassured her — as best they could — that he was alive and well back home. They weren't entirely sure, but her gentle smile seemed to know more than they said.
Then came their stories — of their journey through the mist, the trials, and the divine patrons who had chosen them. She listened in silence, pride and sorrow mingling in her eyes.
When they finally told her why they had come, she only nodded, unsurprised. "The gods have their ways," she said softly. "They make sure we know what must be known before it happens."
Neither Jaime nor Jimena found that strange anymore. After all they had seen — the fire, the shadows, the divine mirrors — the workings of gods no longer shocked them.
For a while, they simply talked. The glow of the kitchen warmed the bones of the house. The hum of the street beyond drifted through the open doorway — the sound of the underworld's quiet life: the soft clatter of clay, laughter from spirits passing by, and the faint scent of flowers and bread mingling in the cool air.
The twins could feel something shift deep in their chests as they spoke — a tightening and soft pulsing, the bond to their gods and each other growing heavier, fuller. The warmth sometimes turned to an itch beneath their skin, a divine reminder that their time here was not meant to last. Still, they hid their discomfort, content to sit in this borrowed peace for as long as it would allow.
Eventually, Jaime broke their fast. He picked up his concha and took a bite. The sugar shattered, scattering flakes across the table no matter how careful he was. The taste — soft, sweet, achingly familiar — hit him like a memory.
A small groan escaped him before he caught himself. His mother and Jimena both broke into laughter, the sound echoing warmly against the clay walls.
Blushing, Jaime tried to brush the crumbs from his lap. "Mom… will we be able to come see you again?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling.
She reached across the table and took his hand in hers. Her touch was cool, yet somehow filled with the same old warmth that had comforted him all his life.
"You tell me, mijo," she said, her smile deep with knowing.
Jaime met her eyes — eyes like liquid amber, shining even through the veil of death — and nodded.
"I'm sure we can," Jimena said, grinning, her face smudged with sugar and honey.
Jaime chuckled, glancing at her and then at their mother. "Yeah," he said, the words quiet but certain. "I'm sure we can."
And for the first time since they had entered Mictlan, the world around them felt alive — filled with warmth, laughter, and the unbroken thread of family that not even death could sever.
---
Marisol walked beside her parents through the tianguis, its crowded lanes alive with the hum of voices and the rhythmic clatter of trade. The underworld was far from the silent, mournful place she had imagined — here, it pulsed with life. Spirits bartered with laughter and sharp words, the air rich with the scent of copal and roasted maize.
Everywhere she looked, there were bones. Vendors displayed them with reverence — polished femurs carved into flutes, rib bones etched with symbols, powders and ointments made from sacred remains. One stall offered gleaming vertebrae strung like pearls; another sold bone polish that shimmered faintly, catching the lantern light.
By the fifth stall, Marisol stopped looking too closely. The sight no longer startled her, but she found it overwhelming — so many traces of what once was, now given new purpose. Her parents, however, examined each offering with fascination, discussing quietly with the merchants in the old tongue.
As they moved deeper into the market, Marisol noticed the stares. Spirits turned to watch her, whispering in low voices that carried awe rather than suspicion. She held her head high, her pride a small flame that steadied her heart.
The bond in her chest thrummed — no longer painful or uncertain, but sure and balanced. Her goddess's presence filled her like the steady beat of a drum. Soon, she would learn what it truly meant to be the goddess's priestess. Her parents had told her how their patron had shaped this realm, how her divine will brought order and mercy to a place once filled with shadows and despair.
That purpose stirred within her now, an echo that called from somewhere deep inside.
"Marisol," her father said softly, his hand brushing hers. She blinked, realizing she had drifted into a trance.
Her mother smiled knowingly. "It seems the goddess calls to you," she murmured, slipping her arm around her daughter. Hugging her briefly before holding her hand.
Marisol's father took her other hand, and together they guided her forward through the bustling tianguis. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet certainty in her chest — the pull of faith, of duty, of a destiny written long ago.
Marisol accompanied her parents a while longer through the market, helping them deliver bundles of herbs to several workshops. The air was thick with the scent of sage and copal, the soft murmur of spirit voices blending with the rhythmic scrape of tools and quiet laughter. Time slipped past unnoticed until the market's lanterns burned low and shadows lengthened along the cobblestone streets.
By the time they reached the wide double doors once more, night had fully settled. The familiar fragrance of herbs lingered around them — calming, bittersweet.
Her mother turned to her first, wrapping Marisol in a warm embrace. Light shimmered faintly beneath her translucent skin, her bones glowing like embers before she slipped back inside. That faint radiance trailed upward, rising into the night.
Her father stayed a moment longer. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "I'll be seeing you again," he said, smiling — the kind of smile that carried faith, not farewell.
Slowly, his ghostly over his skeletal form dissolved into a fine mist. With a last wave, he stepped inside with her mother.
She stared while that mist drifted upward, caught by a soft wind, disappearing into the silver halo of the moon. The full moon shone brighter as more mist from nearby buildings gathered, its glow spilling across the quiet town.
Marisol lingered beneath that moonlight, her eyes following the rising trails of mist. The stillness around her pressed close, but she felt no fear — only peace. Whatever worries she had gathered here seemed to unravel beneath the moon's gentle gaze.
She knew it was time.
Turning, she followed the blossoming trail of cempasúchil once more. The petals glowed faintly, their fragrance growing stronger with every step. Beneath her sternum, she felt something harden — a small, solid weight, like a stone forming in her heart. It ached and itched, pulsing with an unfamiliar energy.
But she didn't slow.
The urge inside her built until she broke into a jog, petals swirling behind her in golden arcs. The air shimmered faintly around her, and with each step she felt the same rising pull she had known once before — that first toll of the bell, that first whisper of tide and calling.
The path ahead gleamed like liquid light, and she ran toward it, toward whatever waited beyond.
Marisol followed the cempasúchil trail until she saw two familiar figures ahead. Jaime and Jimena waited by the river's edge, their faces bright in the moonlight. Relief and quiet joy bloomed in her chest — they looked just as at peace as she felt.
Without a word, the three of them fell into step together, walking beneath the silver glow of the moon. It followed them faithfully, its reflection rippling across the black waters beside the road.
Soon, the town was far behind them. Ahead, across the dark river, stood a palace unlike any they had seen before. Its walls gleamed white as bone, adorned with black pictographs that danced in the shifting light — images that seemed to tell a story older than memory.
To one side, rows of maize reached toward the heavens, their golden tassels whispering in the wind. Among them, drowned farmers moved with slow, deliberate grace, tending their crops with hands that never tired and eyes that no longer closed.
The trail of cempasúchil led them beneath a wide stone archway carved with sacred symbols. Before them loomed the grand doors of the palace — towering, silent, and heavy with meaning.
For a moment, they simply stood there, unsure if they should knock, call out, or wait.
Then the doors creaked open.
A drowned stood in the threshold, adorned in ceremonial Aztec garb — feathers slick with water, jade ornaments glinting faintly against his pallid skin. His eyes were clouded but aware, studying them with quiet expectation.
The four of them regarded one another in stillness, a strange recognition passing between the living and the dead.
Finally, the drowned spoke, his voice a low gurgle that echoed like water in a deep well.
"Come in," he rasped, as though the act of speech itself was a memory returning.