Page 162 of Espíritu

Julian crouched, brushed a thumb across his hair, and held out the woven bracelet without ceremony. “You dropped this,” he said, voice rougher than he meant.

Luca blinked himself back to the world, then his mouth wobbled into a smile as he slid it on.

“Thanks,” Luca whispered.

“Anytime,” Julian said, and meant it.

The door swung open, and warm light spilled over them. Rio stood there with a dish towel over his shoulder. His hand found the back of Julian’s neck for one steady second, a squeeze that said what he didn’t.

“C’mon,” Rio murmured, ushering them inside. The heat and noise of very-late Christmas Eve swallowed them whole—voices, music, the smells of cinnamon and pizza. Home.

Inside, the living room was already a nest of blinking lights, pizza boxes, and people he loved. Twinkling LEDs framed the windows. Plates of Hot-N-Ready slices and sugar-dusted hojarascas crowded the coffee table along with half a dozen mismatched soda cans. A playlist of holiday music hid under the real soundtrack of yelling, smack talk, and occasional victorious shrieks. Omar ducked into the hallway, FaceTiming his parents in Honduras. His voice softened, proud and careful Spanish threading through the static.

Luca, now fully awake, sat cross-legged with a controller, his bracelet snug on his wrist. He looked more himself than Julian had seen in weeks—bright-eyed, snorting at Rocky’s trash talk, grinning whenever Julian caught his eye.

Julian couldn’t stop glancing at him. Watching his shoulders. His hands. No shadows. No tremble. No darkness clinging to him like before.

He’d even checked—subtly, with a half hug and a clap on the shoulder—and there’d been nothing on Luca’s chest. His Marca Hueca was gone and every laugh loosened something inside Julian.

Julian sat on the floor, back against the couch, with Yadriel perched beside him and Maritza sprawled across the armchair like she owned it.

“Okay, debrief,” Rocky said around a cookie. “We saw the news—earthquake but not, mysterious lights, power blip. What actually happened?”

Julian flopped down with his legs in Yadriel’s lap. “CliffsNotes? Death god. Big. Hungry. Tried to eat me.”

Omar grimaced. “Like … literally?”

“Literally,” Julian said.

Flaca stared. “And you’re just”—she gestured at him—“sitting here eating pizza?”

“Pizza is medicinal,” he said. “Also? We freed the trapped ghosts—”

“Spirits,” Yadriel corrected.

“Angel’s not forgiven, but she’s free.”

Maritza saluted with a cookie. “And we anchored Julian’s dramatic ass while he did it.”

“Everyone played a very important role,” Yadriel put in, peacemaker to the bone.

Rio wandered in from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder. He brushed a glance over the room—Julian, Luca, all of them alive and breathing—and let out a quiet breath that wasn’t quite a smile.

Then he dropped onto the edge of the couch, woke a controller with his thumb, and said, “So, who’s losing?”

Everyone gathered in the living room and settled in to play. On the TV, Mario Party chaos unfolded in full swing.

“HOW—” Omar shouted as Rocky’s character spun a wheel and stole half his coins. “HOW are you this evil?!”

“It’s a gift,” Rocky said smugly. “You’re just pissed I’m better than you.”

Omar muttered under his breath, clutching his controller like it had betrayed him.

“You’re all amateurs!” Julian declared. “The key to Mario Party is emotional warfare!”

“You would know,” Flaca said, tossing a pillow at him. “You’re a menace. You STOLE MY STAR.”

“It’s called strategy, my friend!”