Work Text:
Camilo was the first one to notice. Out of all the grandchildren, he was probably the one who spent the least time with her, always busy elsewhere, but Camilo knew people and the way they behaved. Alma had taught him that; she’d taken her five-year-old nephew to the plaza, holding his hand, nodding towards their neighbors as she explained to him that acting was so much more than the mask you wore.
Here, ten years later, Camilo was fairly aware that the family had aged. He made a point out of calling his pa old at least twice a week, and yet he hadn’t considered what level of archaic he then condemned Alma to.
She’d grown older, yes, but Camilo did not spend his time counting her wrinkles or noting how many times a day she lost track of an item.
“Camilito,” she said that one morning, even though he’d outgrown that nickname about two decades ago, “Please wear your face when I’m talking with you.”
“I am,” he said, a frown fighting his usual smile. It’d been five whole minutes since the last time he’d used his Gift, and that had been in the other room, entertaining little Emilio, “abuela.”
Alma made a face he’d seen before - the one when she didn’t believe him, usually reserved for the times she’d asked if he’d already eaten, and he’d lie no - and asked him to please remove the cobwebs from the tallest corners of Casita.
After that, he looked more closely. He studied her in the manner she’d taught him - “If you are to make the best use of your Gift, Camilo, you must put effort into it.” - and saw the tremors.
Sometimes, she stared at people for too long. Other times, she came to a halt, looking oddly lost when she began moving again. When she was surrounded by her great-grandchildren, she quickly turned overwhelmed - but who could blame her? Esther and Elena were loud, but Dolores would hold them for hours in her arms nonetheless, until the twins finally slept.
Old people were strange, Camilo decided, but that was how time worked. Bodies turned fragile, mind worked slower. It was cruel, but that was the cost of age, and Camilo would much rather have his slow, confused abuela than the alternative.
“We have a new Gift!” Alma declared, and the darkened sky burst alight with fireworks. Cheers erupted as they all stared at Emilio as he turned back visible, Dolores and Mariano rushing over to embrace him, all except Bruno whose green eyes had homed in on Alma.
He’d watched the moment when Alma’s face twisted in panic, eyes turning wide as looked down at her empty hands, mouth opening and closing before she found the words to ask Emilio if he would use his Gift to honor the miracle.
Then the celebration began, and Bruno had now learned not to disrupt anyone’s special day. He stayed quiet, and when he later that night, overwhelmed and weary, headed for the kitchen for a cup of tea, he’d almost forgotten about it.
When he found Alma by the table, a cup between her hands, he joined her with a knowing smile. “That went considerably better than the last two ceremonies,” he said, because long enough time had passed for the pain to fade and for those memories to simply become a part of their long, complicated family story. “One full door and no cracks.”
“Yes.” Alma returned the smile, politely so, but her eyes were clouded with worry in a way she couldn’t manage to hide from him. “It was a perfect night.”
“...Were you afraid it wouldn’t be?”
“There was a moment,” she admitted, putting her cup aside on the table, “when Emilio was looking at me. I was horrified - I thought I’d forgotten the candle.” She looked down at her empty hands, clenching them.
“Right.” Bruno didn’t hesitate for too long, figuring that his mother had simply been overwhelmed by the fact they had been dealing with a new sort of magic. It’d been the first ceremony since Mirabel brought them back their Miracle, after all. “First time with a new Gift without the candle. But … I guess we haven’t needed it in a long time.”
“That is true.”
Alma wrung her hands, staying silent before excusing herself, leaving her cup of tea behind, still full and long turned cold.
After that, Camilo returned to his scrutinizing study of her, as if he was observing a whole new character to imitate. Watch, learn, change.
It was early morning, and Luisa had just carried her down the stairs. Alma insisted she’d walked the rest of the way to the patio, but Camilo interrupted her before she could reach the back door.
“Abuela.”
“What are you doing in the shadows?” She had a hand against her chest, slightly startled, but her face was amused rather than scolding. “You are much too old to come to me after getting into trouble.”
Camilo swallowed. His parents had always said he found it easy to be loud, even when others would stay silent. Sometimes that was a good thing. Sometimes it wasn’t.
“Are you alright?”
“Of course,” Alma said, and he saw the way her brows twitched, the way her lips tightened. Details matter; she’d taught him that. “Why are you asking?”
“Are you forgetting things?” he asked, and it was easier now when he’d taken the first step by approaching her. “It seems like you are forgetting things.”
Her eyes widened. What did he recognize in them? Shock? Yes, mixed with shame. For once, the tables had been turned, and he’d caught her red-handed. Then; her expression shifted, hardening into the mask he’d grown up with. Mouth small, eyes narrowed, face composed, neutral, judging.
“Like where you put your plate. Or what day it is. Or - or if it’s evening already or just morning.” He paused before the final observation; the one that had pushed him to finally address the issue. “Or the twins’ names.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Alma said in the tone that meant the topic was dealt with. Knowing the family was waiting for them outside, she turned, walking away from him.
That’s what caused him to snap.
Camilo clenched his fists at his sides, spending five long seconds exhaling, inhaling, calm yourself, clear skies. But there was no going back from this, and though sometimes Camilo said the wrong things, he’d always had the courage to speak his mind.
“Can you remember their names?” he called out just as she’d placed herself in her chair - at the end of the table, of course, her spot. The rest of the family looked up at him, seemingly even more stunned than her. “Can you remember mine?”
“Camilo,” Félix said, looking from Alma’s pale face to Camilo’s furious eyes.
“I didn’t ask you,” he hissed, turning on the spot with a twirl of his ruana and disappearing within the house.
Causing a scene was his talent, after all, and this way, the kids were too busy looking for their upset tío to notice the way their bisabuela’s hands trembled.
“Is abuela sick?” Antonio had grown much too tall - taking after his mother; Félix was not pleased - to ride on his jaguar’s back, but the big cat still lingered near his side, leaning against him as he entered Dolores’ room. “Lucas said he saw tío holding her hand while tía cried. And ma -” He looked out of the window, toward the grey sky bursting with heavy rain. “She is sick, right?”
“In a way.” Dolores held Esther to her chest. Mariano was in the nursery, trying to lull Elena to sleep, and she could already hear Emilio’s soft snores from his room. The crying had stopped hours ago - at least when it came to the youngest Madrigals. “It’s something that can happen to people who grow old. It’s her mind - you start to forget.”
“Everything?” Antonio asked in a way that didn’t require an answer, watching the raindrops fall.
After that, Camilo rarely stayed in his own skin, keeping a proper distance between himself and Alma to avoid any conversation.
Mirabel would scold him for being childish, but how could she, knowing Camilo’s oldest fear had always been to be forgotten?
She liked to believe that she hadn’t changed, that even when her beloved abuela was slowly turning into someone else, Mirabel didn’t treat her differently - but it was hard. Every time Mirabel stared at her for too long, her heart swelled with love and hurt.
Alma was sick, yes, with a terrible disease that wouldn’t just rob her family from her in the most cruel, slow way, but it was a thief that stole from Alma herself, robbing parts of her, hollowing her out.
But, clinging to her optimistic nature, Mirabel reminded herself it could take years. A decade, even. Maybe more.
However, when Alma called for her directly, the anxiety nestled inside her chest.
“Mirabel?”
“Hola, abuela.” Mirabel lingered in the doorway; Alma’s bedroom had always had that overwhelming effect on her, like she wasn’t truly meant to step inside. “What can I do for you?”
“I was thinking,” Alma said, hands folded neatly in front of her, and Mirabel found herself looking at the bony fingers, remembering how they had once held her and led her through her home. How fragile they looked now, trembling ever so slightly in her lap.
Mirabel’s gaze drifted toward the typewriter on the table behind her. Had she been writing?
“There were stories from my life I told you much too late. Others I may have found too unimportant to share but -” Her face twisted with old regret, and when she looked up at Mirabel again, the weary eyes shined with something bright, something Mirabel recognized within herself; the sparkle of an idea mixed with the hereditary Madrigal stubbornness. “My children - and all of you - only know Pedro through stories. My stories. I want to make sure they are not forgotten.”
An unwanted image flashed before Mirabel’s eyes: Alma’s portrait hanging next to Pedro’s. That future was inevitable, as they’d now grown fearfully aware of, but she thought of Emilio and the twins and wondered how many years they would get with their bisabuela. Of the future great-grandchildren, of her own future children.
When would her abuela be reduced to a story the same way her abuelo had been? A story she’d tell the young Madrigals, of two young people in love, of an escape, a sacrifice, a river, a candle. Of magic and miracles, a living house, a safe haven, a family tree that continued to grow, stretching its branches toward the blue sky where butterflies flew.
It’d be the story of Alma, and though Mirabel had trusted her creative fingers to create masterpieces before, stories told through thread and needle, she doubted she could ever do her abuela justice. Alma was a person, Alma was a wonder, Alma was a strength Mirabel had feared and loved and now looked up to. How could that ever be reduced to ink and paper?
“You’ve always been creative,” Alma told her, pride lifting the corners of her lips. The shine in her eyes had turned wet. “My Pedro was an author.”
“You,” Alma said, resting her hand on Luisa’s stomach; there wasn’t much to see yet, but now when she knew, she couldn’t unsee the signs, “are going to be such a good mother.”
Luisa lit up like a candle and embraced her, always careful not to use too much of her strength.
The family was growing. New doors had already been added. Emilio now had his own room, and two doors were waiting for Esther and Elena, a few years left before the twins could open them.
For now, the children simply played; Emilio winning all the games of hide-and-seek after his ceremony. They ran around Alma, singing, greeting her, asking her to play with them, and though she loved them and held them and told them stories, she explained she’d grown much too old for games. She’d watch instead, and Casita, always an extension of her, played with them, lifting them in the air.
She didn’t use their names often, but no one commented on that, not even after Camilo’s outburst.
“Did you move the candle?” she asked Emilio, who looked confused at her distress. It was the middle of the day; they only needed candlelight in the evening.
“No, bisabuela.”
She made a point out of venturing into the village when her legs allowed her, wanting to face her home, the entirety of it, her neighbors. She’d walk until she couldn’t remember what she’d come for.
“Abuela?” Isabela appeared behind her, a trail of flowers following her along the fence. “Are you looking for anyone?”
“I-” Was she? She was unsure and unwilling to give her granddaughter a truthful answer. Instead, she shook her head and smiled. “No.”
“Would you walk with me?” Isabela offered, and Alma took her arm.
“Always.”
She led her back in the direction of Casita, but they used the small path around the town, allowing Alma to get a view of fruitful fields. Her beautiful home was only improved by Isabela’s Gift, flowers sprouting with every shared step.
The beauty didn’t end with Isabela herself, but Alma frowned as she saw the sadness that weighed down the youthful face.
“What is the matter, mi vida?”
The question shattered Isabela’s already crumbling facade, and she collapsed in a pile of lilies.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, still clinging to Alma’s hands. “I’d want my children to meet you but - I’m just not ready yet. I wanted to give you that, like Lola and Luisa. I don’t want to disappoint -”
“Mi vida,” Alma interrupted her and held her against her chest. The force of the sobs threatened to knock her over, but she retained her balance, resting a hand on top of Isabela’s head. “I’ve watched you bloom, and none of your flowers could be as beautiful as your growth. You owe me nothing; you do not disappoint. Your life, my flower, your pace. And your children will be miracles.”
One day, Alma knew, her first grandchild, her pride, would achieve that; because Isabela knew to fight for what she wanted now, and it was all so well-deserved. She’d introduced them to the important people in her life before. Carla had been a wonderful woman, worthy of Isabela, but not the right person in the end. Her departure had been peaceful, and from what Alma could gather, Isabela had ventured more often to the nearby village lately for a specific reason.
Maybe they would meet her one day. One day.
“You’ve always been here,” Isabela cried while Alma removed flowers from her hair, ensuring the thorns wouldn’t prick her as she wept. “My entire life, you’ve been here. I don’t know what to do -”
“My beautiful Isa, I’m not gone yet.” This was worse, Alma was sure, painful in a way that left her body alone, but instead tore her mind to pieces with a greedy hunger. It was a thief, and she had such a lovely treasure; a lifetime of precious memories. However, there were worse fates. One could only be robbed if they had something of worth. “But my Pedro, he is waiting. But I am in no hurry. He was - is - patient.”
“I love you,” Isabela told her, the words barely making it past her lips before another sob tore through her.
“I know.” Then she promised, “I won’t forget that.”
Pepa couldn’t see the mountains surrounding the village. The fog was too thick, and Pepa wondered if this was how her mother felt; to be engulfed by this silent threat, a blindness within her mind.
Lingering on that thought for too long only made Pepa feel old in turn. However, one could argue that was deserved; she was, after all, an abuela now. And yet so wouldn’t even try to compare herself to Alma surrounded by six nietos all craving her attention.
Now they were so adult, even her Toñito had become a young man, and the future ahead was broad, exciting and scary all at once. Her babies were growing up; Dolores now a mother, Camilo vibrant and kind-hearted but with no plans of settling down, Antonio having outgrown her height with an inch.
And her mother … Casita had taken care of her, ensured that Alma was wrapped in a blanket as she stayed in the courtyard in the late hours of night. There were no stars to admire; the fog made sure of that.
“Mamá?”
“It’s strange,” Alma sat quietly, gesturing for her daughter to join her on the bench. “Everyone says I keep forgetting but the past seems clearer than ever. When I was a child, we had a neighbor. Old señora Días. I thought her to be ancient. Now I’ve surpassed her.” She paused then, reaching out to hold Pepa’s hand. “She was … confused, those final years. One day, she screamed, and I came running. She’d looked at our cat and seen a jaguar.”
A huff, brief and amused, escaped her.
“Now I wonder if I will look at a jaguar and see a housecat.”
“Mamá.”
But Alma merely shook her head, the smile on her lips remaining peaceful. “When we fled, I thought I’d never gain the title of old,” she said, and old habits craned her neck back to look at the windowsill where the candle had once shined bright. “I feared my children wouldn’t get the chance to grow up.”
Pepa was silent, but the air around them had changed; humidity embracing them, a warning of rain on a warm summer night.
“I am so thankful, mija,” Alma said, squeezing her hand while Pepa rested against her shoulder. She’d done so as a child, crawling on top of her lap to get her hair braided, screaming when her fingers met tangles, kissing her forehead afterward as an unspoken thank you. “I am just sorry for the pain this will cause you.”
“This tastes the way my mother makes them.”
Julieta turned around, unable to match Alma’s smile. How pleased she looked with the bowl of changua in front of her, how lovely the morning had been. Now Julieta felt as if the floor had turned to ice, cracks spreading with every step.
“Mamá,” she said carefully. “Your mother died many, many years ago.”
Alma’s smile froze but didn’t vanish. “Oh.” Her fingers tightened around the spoon.
“I add cebollines,” Julieta then spoke softly, unwilling to let Alma linger in the moment of newfound grief. Leaving the unkneaded dough behind, she joined her mother by the table. “You - you taught me to make it the way your mother used to. Since we never got to meet her.”
La Familia Madrigal was a story. Now it was proudly told around the Encanto, one painted on walls. But before the children, Julieta’s family had been her siblings, her mother. Pedro and her abuelos had always been stories, reduced to words she’d never get tired of hearing. But Alma had always fallen silent too soon.
How grateful she was, for her children to have a father, a grandmother.
Though they hadn’t spoken about it, Julieta could tell from the way Luisa and Gabriel were looking at each other that they wanted children, too. Would they get to know their bisabuela?
“Even before I got my Gift, you taught me. Because it was my favorite breakfast and I wanted to learn.”
“Pepa’s too,” Alma added fondly. “When she learned to drink.”
A sound stumbled its way out of Julieta’s mouth, happy and broken all at once. “That’s right. It’s saved her many times.”
They’d all been taught to wake up early, to get out their beds and use their Gifts to help the village from the very sunrise. Julieta remembered then; the cloud hanging over Pepa’s head as she tried to get used to the taste of coffee, Bruno practically stumbling down the stairs with bags under his eyes, both of them joining her in the kitchen - her kitchen - to praise the breakfast she provided for them.
How many of such memories had escaped her too?
“I overcooked the eggs,” Julieta recalled softly, and the scene replayed before her eyes, how she’d been too small for the counter and Casita had fetched a stool for her, “The first time I made it. So we made it again the next day so I could learn. I got them right then. Bruno ate two bowls.”
Julieta blinked away tears of fondness, and now she saw clearly Alma in front of her; her gaze unfocused, looking past her, smile polite and confused.
She didn’t remember.
“It tastes just like mamá’s,” Alma said after another spoonful, and Julieta clung to the words like a lifeline.
The greatest praise belonged to the present.
One could never truly get lost within Casita. The house expanded around them, guiding them back to where they needed to go. But Alma had begun to wander, losing track of space and time, and every so often, Casita would nudge the other Madrigals, alarming them of the issue.
That’s how the tiles led Bruno to the gate where Alma stood in her nightgown, looking down at the village below. She didn’t notice his presence until he put a hand on her shoulder, and she spun around to face him.
Tears sprung to her eyes.
“Pedro.”
Bruno sucked in a breath. It was the middle of the night; she was always most confused then.
“No, mamá,” he whispered, barely keeping his knees from buckling. He hated this, every part of this. He recognized the person in front of her - his mamá, oh his mamá - but the look in her eyes was foreign; needy, sad, relieved, and full of something he couldn’t name. “Why are you not in bed?”
“I was looking for you,” Alma said, words so soft the wind might steal them. Silent tears fell from her lashes, rolling down her cheeks.
“I was in my tower,” Bruno said, rubbing his arm as he shifted. The familiar sense of discomfort had returned, but he remained, though the anxiety had him rambling as usual. It was better than the silence, than his mother’s tears. “I couldn’t sleep, but I was trying to. Camilo keeps teasing me about being old and tired but I’m still not that great at sleeping. Very good at dreaming. But not sleeping.”
“I couldn’t find you.”
Bruno swallowed and looked to the side, toward the glow of the door, away from Alma and her too-deep eyes, full of a past he hadn’t been a part of.
“I was looking for you, and I couldn’t find you.” She reached for his cheek, her touch as light as a ghost’s. “I’m so sorry.”
The night was full of ghosts, Bruno decided, and his hands trembled, longing to knock, to secure his family some much-needed good luck, to get out of this piece of a nightmare. Or was it a dream? It felt like it; the whole scene blurring, too silent and loud all of once. As if they were the only two people left in the world, and yet, there were more characters present than he could see. Was he dreaming? Was Alma? Was that how it felt like? Memories blurring, turning into a landscape resting on the knife edge between dream and nightmare?
“I -”
“Why were you gone?” Alma asked, facing the question that had haunted her for sixty years. “My Pedro -”
“Mamá,” Bruno said, taking her hand but letting it rest against his face. “It’s me.”
Alma blinked, and in her wet eyes, Bruno saw the reflection of himself - or, maybe, a portrait.
“Bruno,” Alma wept, then. “Where did you go?”
“I - I was behind the walls. But I’m back now, mamá.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” The tears had stopped, though their wet trails remained on her face that now relaxed; turning older and calmer all at once. Her smile, however, was ageless - the one he recognized from his own youth, the one that, though rare, had always been there. “I am very tired. You must be too.”
“Sí,” Bruno said, blinking away his own tears.
If Alma saw them, she didn’t reveal so. She simply tugged at his hand so he leaned down, allowing his cheek to be kissed. “Goodnight.”
“Such a strong wind.” Alma hugged herself tighter, shivering. “It keeps opening the windows.”
Antonio was the grandchild who felt the most at ease in her bedroom; for the last ten years, his grandmother had made a point out of inviting them inside, letting them admire the room that had been hers even before the Encanto had formed around her. She’d told them stories in here, some real, some fairy tales more magical than their own life, and Antonio barely remembered the time when they hadn’t been allowed to enter. There’d been so many rules back then.
Now he frowned, placing the cup of tea he’d been carrying on the bed table so that Alma could reach it. “That’s just Casita, abuela,” he said, gesturing towards the shutters that waved at them. “Casita. Our home.”
“Our home, yes.” Propped up against pillows, Alma looked ahead, brows furrowing with the effort. “Pedro built the cribs.”
“What cribs?” Following her stare toward the corner of the room, Antonio saw nothing but the framed pictures on the wall. “I don’t think the cribs are here.”
“No,” Alma sighed, falling back against the bed. She was so tired these days. “No, we left them behind.”
Her eyes dulled as Antonio hovered, trying to offer the cup of tea.
“Perdóname, I am -” she said, unsure of her own tears. “I am very sad. Perdóname.”
Some things changed, some things didn’t.
Mirabel woke them up with a knock against their door, and so grandchildren and great-children alike danced, basking within the warmth of Casita. Alma’s door was the last now, and Mirabel always knocked twice to wake her up before she entered. Luisa would help carry her downstairs to the breakfast table where the family waited loyally for her presence.
The Madrigals had their duties, and suddenly, Mirabel was faced with an unknown but approaching deadline. While her family headed for the village, greeting it, tending to it, she stayed at the desk, letting her fingers wear down the keys of the typewriter.
Today, the chapter wasn’t finished until the sky had darkened, and so a candle was lit on the table as she read out loud for Alma, wanting her comments so she could consider her edits for tomorrow.
They’d tried to work chronologically at the start, but that plan had faded quickly. Instead, Alma would let the memories dictate the order, describing the scenes as they resurfaced. Mirabel would scribble down notes, and so far, she’d heard of stories she’d been a part of, stories about Pedro, stories from even before that fateful La Noche de las Velitas.
She’d rearrange the chapters later, once they were done. For now, her most important job was to listen - then write.
This scene had been easy to describe, after all, it was her own story, too. But it’d been enlightening, enchanting even, to relive it through her abuela’s point of view.
The life of Alma was strange and familiar all at once. Full of hurt and love and magic.
“- and the butterflies soared toward the sky, now turned golden,” she said, her finger resting on the final word. “I tried to work with my own memory too, but - What do you think?”
She looked up to see Alma staring past her, at peace, entertained.
“That,” Alma said, and her eyes were distant, the candlelight reflected in them, “was a wonderful story.”