Jimena, Marisol, and Jaime gathered again, cloaks and ceremonial garb heavy with the scent of incense and sunfire. They shed the layers piece by piece, laughing in shared relief as the oppressive weight lifted from their shoulders.
After hours of ceremony — of chants, blessings, and endless gazes of adoration — they felt strangely hollow and whole at once. The crowd's reverence had filled them, their combined will binding the trio tighter to the world below and to their gods above.
No one had ever explained why it had to be them. Why the gods had chosen three children from among so many souls. But at that moment, surrounded by laughter and music, they did not question it.
They were chosen.
That was enough.
The plaza had transformed into a sea of light and color. Sugar skulls of every size and hue filled the vendor stalls, glittering under the near-tangible sun. The sky seemed closer here — its golden fire licking at the highest rooftops, as if heaven itself leaned near to witness the festival.
Each time the flames brushed against the air, the crowd erupted in cheers, lifting hands toward the heat. "For cleansing!" some cried. "For remembrance!" others shouted. The sunlight burned, but not painfully. It purified.
Marisol walked arm in arm with her parents, weaving through the throngs of music and laughter. Even in the quieter streets, drums still pulsed faintly, and ghostly figures swayed to melodies carried on the wind.
She turned to her mother as they passed a stall selling candied bones and bright wreaths of cempasúchil. "Why does everyone cheer when the fire touches them?" she asked, voice soft but insistent.
Her parents exchanged a glance — a shared hesitation that told her she had stumbled upon something sacred. Her father kept walking, gaze fixed ahead, but her mother sighed.
"It's better explained at home," she murmured.
The walk back was quiet save for the distant echo of song. When they finally reached the door of their small house, her mother hesitated before opening it. Inside, the air was still.
"It's the way souls reincarnate here," her mother began at last, her voice heavy with the weight of understanding. "At least… for now."
Marisol frowned, unsure if she should feel comfort or fear.
Her mother turned to her father, as if seeking permission to continue. He only nodded once.
"The gods… they burn away what clings to us — memory, pain, desire — until what remains can return to the cycle. The fire you saw today is not destruction. It is promise. It is how we live again."
Marisol stared at the faint traces of ash floating past the window — remnants of celebration, or perhaps, of rebirth.
She pressed a hand to her chest where the divine bond pulsed faintly, and whispered, "Then we'll see each other again."
Her mother smiled, eyes glimmering with both sorrow and faith. "Always, mija. In one life or another."
Outside, the festival roared on. The sun did not move from its zenith.
Forty days of light — forty days before it's light thinned again.
---
Jimena watched the goofy smile spread across her brother's face — the same one she suspected was plastered on her own. They sat together in their mother's small house, the table overflowing with baked goods of every shape and color. The walls were covered in strings of paper with delicate pictograph cutouts, flowers pressed into every corner.
She wanted to remember it all.
The warmth.
The laughter.
This cozy little home she knew she would never see again.
The blazing sun outside licked at the rooftops, sending ribbons of golden flame down to dance upon the streets. It was a cheerful fire — not one that destroyed, but one that blessed. She could feel it resonate with her mother, the sacred flame that flickered inside her chest mirroring the same rhythm.
Jaime felt it too, she was sure. Even as he stuffed his face with conchas, buñuelos, and thick slices of tres leches cake. Jimena had tried to reach for the sponge cake earlier, but one look at the wild gleam in his eyes made her back off immediately.
How much could he eat, she wondered, half horrified, half amused.
The answer was apparently "all of it."
He devoured everything as if he'd never eat again — or perhaps because, deep down, he knew he wouldn't.
Jimena smiled faintly and leaned back, letting her gaze wander across the room. She had never really cared for sweets anyway. The heavy scent of sugar made her long for the smoked meat her father used to prepare — thick slices sizzling over the fire, the smell of salt and smoke filling their old home.
The memory stirred something warm in her chest. A sense of freedom.
She thought of the forests that once called to her, of the wide open sky she'd only been allowed to dream of as a child. Her father's fear — the bars he built around her life — would never bind her again.
No, she thought. Not anymore.
Fear wouldn't control her life. Not in this world, nor the next.
Jaime burped loudly, earning a sharp scolding from their mother — though her smile betrayed her amusement. She was happy, he knew, to see him enjoy her baked goods just as he always had.
The day lingered on, golden and slow, even as a gentle fatigue began to settle over them. Outside, the festival still roared — laughter, music, and the faint echo of drums blending into the hum.
"I think it's time you left," their mother said softly.
She took Jaime's hand, her smile warm but heavy, her eyes shining with that endless kind of love only mothers carry.
"I know," he managed, his throat tightening around the words. He coughed quickly, pretending it was nothing.
Jimena reached out across the table, meeting her mother's gaze — an entire lifetime of words condensed into a single look.
Jaime, regaining his composure, stood and wrapped his arms around their mother. He held her tightly, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart, the warmth that would stay with him long after he was gone.
At least this time, he thought, he had the chance to say goodbye.
Perhaps, in another life, they would meet again.
Jimena joined them, and the three held each other for a long, long while — until even time seemed to pause and breathe with them.
When at last they stepped apart, their mother brushed a tear from Jimena's cheek.
Final words were whispered, promises made in silence.
Then, from the threshold, a golden trail of cempasúchil petals unfurled — glowing faintly, like sunlight on water.
A divine call stirred within their hearts, deep and familiar.
It was time.
The three youths walked the path of cempasúchil, their steps guided by the quiet pull in their hearts.
The golden petals glowed faintly beneath their feet, their fragrance thick in the warm air.
When they reached the plaza, their temples stood before them once more — silent, waiting.
And in front of each stone temple, a god awaited.
The spirits that filled the plaza fell to their knees in reverence.
Only the beat of the drums remained, slow and hollow like the pulse of the underworld.
A flute joined in, playing a mournful melody — the sound of farewell.
Then, gradually, the drums changed their rhythm.
The beat quickened, steady and strong — a rhythm of rebirth.
Rattles shook, carrying the last echo of the song into silence.
The chosen priests stood before their patron gods.
And only then did they truly understand the difference between divine and mortal.
When they had first met Mictecacihuatl, she had been sitting — almost human in scale.
But now the gods towered above them, immense and terrible.
Their presence warped the air itself, reality bending in deference to their will.
They were inhuman beings, vast and ancient, bearers of unimaginable power.
Jaime swallowed hard as he stood before the god who had guided him —
the gruff, skeletal lord of death, Mictlantecuhtli.
The god's hollow eyes regarded him without emotion.
Feathers of deep brown and ochre crowned his massive penacho,
the pattern echoing the markings of Cimi, the owl. his headdress alone was taller than Jaime.
Without a word, the god raised one bony finger
and pressed it against the mark etched upon Jaime's forehead —
the skull with its tongue extended.
A spark of divine power flared, cold and sharp as obsidian.
It seared through Jaime's mind, and he gasped,
feeling the icy current of death flood into him.
For a brief, terrifying instant, the light of Cimikora — the guide bound to him —
flared in defiance, struggling to hold its ground.
Then the god's will closed around them both, sealing the energy within the brand.
The pain vanished. Only stillness remained.
"I expect you to overcome your mortality,"
Mictlantecuhtli intoned — his voice vast, resonant, final.
Then his form unraveled into a swirl of black fog.
The smoke rose high, twisting through the golden air
until it vanished into the burning heart of the sun.
Marisol stepped forward.
The petals beneath her feet shimmered faintly as she approached Chalchiuhtlicue, the goddess of lakes and flowing waters.
The goddess regarded her with calm intensity — her eyes, vast and blue as still water, reflected Marisol's own image back at her. Then, with deliberate grace, Chalchiuhtlicue reached forward and took Marisol's hands into her own.
The size difference startled her. The goddess's touch was cool yet comforting, her fingers moving with patient care as she examined every part of the chosen girl's form. Wherever her touch lingered, relief and renewal followed.
Divine energy seeped through Marisol's veins — soft, luminous, and alive.
Her skin grew supple, strong as young leaves; her bones flexible as reeds; her blood thickened with the slow pulse of sap.
She gasped softly when Chalchiuhtlicue released her hands. Whether the goddess was satisfied with what she saw, or with what she had made of her, Marisol did not know.
The sensation alone was enough. It filled her entirely.
The goddess smiled.
Her jade garments shimmered like liquid sunlight, every gem gleaming in hues of green and turquoise. Fine mist began to rise from her body, veiling her divine shape in soft clouds of vapor.
From within that luminous fog, two jade eyes glowed bright and knowing.
"Bring life and grow,"
the goddess's voice echoed — not in the air, but within Marisol's very soul.
Her tone carried the gravity of oceans, the tenderness of rain.
Then Chalchiuhtlicue's form dissolved completely into mist, and that mist ascended, vanishing into the blazing sun above.
Marisol turned — and found Jaime watching her.
Together, they looked to Jimena, who still stood before her own goddess.
The air around Jimena burned faintly blue, heat and ash dancing at her feet.
The goddess before her — beautiful yet terrible — spoke in a rasping, ancient voice. Even at a distance, the sound reached their ears like whispers carried through flame.
Only moments later, another voice resonated within their minds —
the death goddess herself, her tone melodic and deep as the underworld's heart.
They stepped closer, standing beside Jimena.
She turned toward them, smiling softly — a small, tired, luminous smile.
Emotion swelled among the three of them.
They had fulfilled their purpose.
Home waited — their families, their world.
"Keep the obsidian plates close to your heart,"
the goddess said, her voice filling their minds like smoke and song.
"They will allow us to guide you in the days to come."
She raised her painted hand — long, bony, yet impossibly graceful — and pressed one finger to each of their foreheads.
Cold spread through their skulls.
Then it deepened into stillness.
One by one, the three youths fell into divine sleep.