Page 113 of Espíritu

For a moment, Julian thought he was imagining it. He knew Lita had invited him, but Rio hadn’t said anything about it. He hadn’t even hinted. But here he was, dressed in a simple black tee and dark jeans, the hem of his sleeve brushing the forehead of his Santa Muerte tattoo. His hair was still damp, like he’d just showered and rushed over.

And in his hands, carefully cradled, was their dad’s old hat.

The battered, sweat-stained LA Galaxy cap—its brim slightly frayed, the crown dented just so. Their dad’s favorite hat. The one he wore even when it didn’t match his outfit. The one he once refused to take off for a funeral. The one that, for the longest time, had still smelled like him.

Julian blinked up at Rio. Rio didn’t say a word. He simply knelt beside his brother, leaned forward, and gently set the hat next to the candle.

Julian’s throat burned.

He nodded, too choked up to speak at first. Then, quietly, “He’d like this.”

“Yeah,” Rio said. Reflections of candlelight danced in his dark eyes. “I think so, too.”

They stayed in silence, side by side, facing the flickering altar together.

Julian’s gaze drifted to Rio. The way his profile was lit by the candlelight, the way his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Rio had always carried the weight of the world as if it were his job—taking over when their dad died, holding the family together with sheer will and hard edges.

He’d never cried in front of Julian. Never really talked about the loss. He just … endured.

Julian had mistaken that silence for not caring. For being cold. But being here now, watching the way Rio’s eyes lingered on their dad’s candle, Julian understood.

Grief didn’t always roar. Sometimes it stood quietly beside you in a church at midnight, carrying a worn-out hat and too many memories.

Julian placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Rio didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just let him.

That was enough.

Eventually, Rio stood. He placed his large hand on top of Julian’s head, his thumb brushing against the short, coarse hair. A small, fleeting touch.

“I’ll be out front in the Stingray when you’re ready,” Rio said.

The quiet lingered even after Rio stepped back, rejoining the crowd with a respectful nod to Yadriel, who stood guard nearby as he passed.

Julian stayed where he was, staring at the soft halo of candlelight dancing around the old hat and his decorated candle. And for the first time in days, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like it was going to swallow him whole.

The dark spot—that cold, hollow feeling that usually pulsed beneath his skin—eased. Not completely. But it loosened its grip, as if it were receding just slightly in the warmth of the moment, the presence of memory and love.

Julian let out a slow breath, eyes stinging. His shoulders slumped. Not from defeat this time but relief.

He understood it now, the purpose of the vigil.

It wasn’t just about honoring the dead. It was about remembering that they still mattered. That they still lived in the ones they left behind. In the stories. In the rituals. In the stupid jokes and frayed hats and candlelight.

It was about choosing to stay rooted in the love that remained.

He wiped his face, stood, and quietly stepped closer to Yadriel, who watched him with gentle eyes.

“Thanks,” Julian murmured.

Yadriel tilted his head, instinctively taking Julian’s hand into his own. “For what?”

“For … this. For bringing me here.” For saving his life.

Yadriel’s lips parted like he might say something, but he just nodded, eyes warm with understanding.

Julian didn’t need to explain.

Across the candlelit gathering, Maritza stood beside Paola, near the altar steps, her hands clasped and her face unreadable. Protective. Watchful. She caught Julian’s eye and gave the smallest nod, like she was keeping a respectful distance but still had his back.