Javier followed after Jimena and Jaime.
His daughter had rushed out the moment Chia finished explaining the dangers ahead.
The world beyond their small coastal village was unraveling. Chaos crept closer each day, testing the fragile peace they had fought to build by the sea. Javier felt that familiar dread blooming in his chest — heavier with every heartbeat. And then he saw it: the glint in Jimena's eyes, the dangerous smile playing at her lips.
Liliana's smile, he thought bitterly.
At the front of his house, Jorge and Joaquín were already waiting. A crowd had gathered — neighbors murmuring, asking questions no one had answers to. Javier felt the irritation tug at him, but he forced himself to breathe. He wouldn't lose his temper. Not now.
Taking a deep breath, he called out to Jimena — but she darted ahead of him, slipping through the cluster of people and vanishing inside the house. Her laughter trailed behind her like the echo of a memory.
Jaime lingered, glancing between his father and the restless villagers. There was something he wanted to say — Javier could see it in the way his son's jaw tightened, in the uncertainty behind his eyes.
They shared the same hollow ache. The emptiness left after Liliana's passing — a wound that time refused to close.
Javier sighed and rubbed a hand across his face.
When he finally looked up again, he noticed the strange little owl perched atop Jaime's head, sound asleep. The odd sight almost unnerved him. Almost. But then he caught the movement at his son's feet — the black dog, its amber eyes alert, its tail wagging from time to time.
It had followed Javier close since that afternoon the children had arrived — after what he'd done.
Javier didn't know what to make of it. The creature seemed to watch everything, as though biding its time. Perhaps it had a plan of its own.
He tried to ignore it, the same way he had ignored all the other strange beings that drifted near their village through the years. Spirits, guardians, monsters — whatever they were, he had learned to look past them.
He would not allow the alebrijes to cross that line.
Not here. Not again.
---
Jaime looked at his father, words caught in his throat. How could he speak of their mother? How could he explain what she would have wanted? The subject felt almost forbidden — a ghost that lingered in the room whenever her name was near.
With Jimena acting the way she was, it felt like something inside their father might finally snap. He looked worn — not just tired, but hollowed out.
Javier had always been a neat man. Working with meat demanded it. He kept a clean shave, the faint stubble rare — something their mother had secretly liked. Jaime still remembered the whispers between them when he was small, their laughter soft. He had once dreamed of finding something like that — a love steady and gentle.
Xolo, who had been sitting beside them like a silent guardian, nudged Jaime's leg with his nose. The boy blinked and exhaled, pulled back from memory.
He mirrored his father's sigh, then followed him through the gathered neighbors. Jorge and Joaquín stayed close behind, their presence quiet but firm.
"We'll let you know," one of the brothers said to the lingering crowd before closing the door.
Inside, the house was a mess. Javier grimaced at the sight — empty cups and cracked plates scattered across the table, the sour smell of pulque thick in the air. His own indulgence made visible.
Jaime didn't say a word. He simply smiled, awkward but patient, and began to clean. One by one, he lifted cups, gathered plates, and tossed spoiled food into a clay bowl. His father hesitated at first, but soon joined him.
For a time, they worked in silence. Jaime could tell his father's thoughts were running deep — his face shifting between guilt, grief, and worry.
Then a sudden gust broke the quiet — Jimena swept past them, moving quickly, clutching a small woven bag. Inside, Jaime caught a glimpse of folded clothes and a few hard pieces of bread.
Javier's brief calm shattered. His shoulders stiffened; the worry returned sharp and familiar.
"Jimena," he called, voice rough and commanding. "Where are you going?"
But the question trembled at the end — his words caught the same way Jaime's often did. For a moment, he looked less like the stern father they had known and more like a man afraid to lose what little he still had.
Jimena turned, her expression flashing with anger before she bit it back. The faint heat at her scalp began to glow, but she forced it down.
"I'm going to find that blue deer," she said, softer now. "The one I saw when I was little. I think… it'll be there."
Her eyes lingered on their father, waiting — maybe hoping for something, for approval or understanding. But silence filled the space between them. Jaime saw it coming, and stepped in.
He gently took the bag from her hands. "Maybe help me finish cleaning first," he said, keeping his tone light. "Then we can all get some rest."
Jimena frowned, then glanced around — at the cluttered house, at her father's weary face. The heat in her hair dimmed completely.
"I guess… I was rushing ahead again," she murmured, head low.
Jaime and Xolo exchanged a look, the dog wagging his tail once before nudging her toward the table. Soon, the three of them were working together — the quiet returning, softer this time, almost comforting.
When the last dish was set aside, Jaime risked a glance at his sister, then his father. The tension between them had eased, just a little.
"I'm sure Marisol would want to come," he said finally. "If you're thinking about exploring again. And with everything Chia told us… we should probably plan things out first."
The words hung in the air — not a challenge, but a bridge.
They finally finished cleaning and sat down, tired but silent. The smell of damp clay and pulque lingered faintly in the air. Jimena sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with Xolo, who barked in short, playful bursts. The two seemed to be having a private conversation through the flicker of their ember-bright eyes.
After a while, the door creaked open. Joaquín stepped in, arms full — a large square clay container balanced against his hip, the scent of salted fish filling the room. A clay jug hung from his other hand, its contents sloshing softly.
"Some of the fishermen gave me this," he announced, setting the container down with a proud grin. "We'll cook it in just a bit. Jorge and I went to invite Chia over for dinner, but the fishermen stopped us halfway. We've even got some meat left, so we'll have more than plenty."
He spoke cheerfully as he tossed firewood into the clay oven. The flat steel pan atop it clanked lightly, the sound echoing through the quiet house.
Jaime caught his father's grimace as his gaze lingered on the pulque jug. He knew the look — that mixture of shame and temptation. Jaime himself had wondered what it might taste like. He was nearly of age, after all; a single cup didn't seem like much. But Cimi, perched atop his head, gripped his hair tighter — a small but firm reminder to take the wiser path.
He sighed and rose, joining Joaquín in preparing the fish. The steady rhythm of work soothed him — firewood snapping, salted fillets hissing as they hit the hot pan.
The door opened again. Jorge stepped in first, followed by Marisol and her grandmother, Chia. The old woman carried bundles of herbs tied with twine, their scent sharp and calming.
Marisol immediately spotted Jimena and ran to hug her, her laughter cutting through the heaviness in the air. She waved at Jaime over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face.
Jaime smiled back, a sense of ease washing over him — though it was short-lived. Jimena and Marisol had already started talking, voices quick and animated, excitement sparking between them like fireflies.
Their father, sitting quietly by the table, shifted uneasily at the sound. The spark in his daughter's tone — that wild determination — reminded him too much of mother. For a moment, his tired eyes filled with dread.