Page 112 of Espíritu

All around him, the brujx continued forward in their silent walk. He felt removed from it, somehow. Like the silence didn’t belong to him. Like the peace didn’t quite fit around his grief and rage and confusion.

But still, he walked.

Because maybe, if he kept walking, he’d find his way back to the place where he could feel it, too.

The procession circled back toward the main church again, the flickering river of light folding into itself as one by one, the brujx approached the altar.

It was massive, a sweeping structure of crimson poinsettias, embroidered cloth, and hundreds of tiny candles that danced in the soft breeze. Offerings crowded every surface. Framed photos, little bundles of food, rosaries, trinkets, tamales wrapped in cloth napkins, and bottles of mezcal tucked beside prayer cards of Lady Death.

Julian lingered near the back of the line, heart thudding as he waited his turn. His hands shook slightly around his candle, not just from the cold. The weight of everything was pressing in now. The fight with Angel. The fight with his friends. The swirling shadows in his chest. The ache that never really went away.

When it was finally his turn, Julian stepped forward.

He knelt.

The worn stone floor chilled his knees as he placed the candle carefully onto the altar, nudging it into an open space near Lady Death’s feet. The flame trembled, then steadied, casting a warm glow over the nearby photos and flowers.

Julian sat back on his heels, staring at the candle. He thought about his dad.

Ramon Diaz wasn’t forgotten. But he wasn’t there, either. And that absence was a cold, hollow thing.

Julian closed his eyes, and the memories surged in like a wave.

His dad’s laugh—loud, raspy, unstoppable.

The smells of motor oil, leather, and the nasty cheap cologne he never changed even when Julian begged him to.

His ridiculous stories, always slightly too wild to believe, like the time he claimed he outran a police horse on foot.

Rio would roll his eyes. Julian would clutch his stomach from laughing.

Julian remembered the way his dad’s hands felt—rough from work, always warm. The way he could make a room feel safer just by walking into it. The way he always made time, no matter how tired he was.

He pictured his dad with him now. Crowding the altar, cracking jokes, piling his plate high with food, proudly embarrassing his son in front of his friends.

He would’ve loved this.

He would’ve loved Yadriel.

The thought tightened Julian’s chest, squeezing his heart. His dad would’ve teased him, definitely. But he would’ve looked at Julian the same way he always did—with pride. With love that never wavered.

Julian’s eyes burned. He blinked hard.

He wished he had something else to offer than just the candle. A bottle of Postobon Uva, a picture of his dad tucked into the Stingray’s dashboard. Or maybe a ticket stub from one of the LA Galaxy matches they’d gone to together that lived in a shoebox in his closet.

His throat tightened until he couldn’t breathe. His head bowed, and for a moment, he just stayed there, hands on his thighs, trying to breathe through the grief.

Julian rolled the St. Jude medal between his fingers, focusing on the cool metal and the steady thump of his heartbeat.

The silence wasn’t heavy. It was soft. Gentle. Like a hand resting on his shoulder. Like his dad, just behind him, just out of reach—but there.

Always there.

Julian heard soft footsteps behind him but didn’t turn, figuring it was another brujx adding their offering.

Then the footsteps stopped just beside him. Julian turned his head.

Rio was standing there.