Miguel Rivera.

The rhythmic sound of sandpaper against leather, almost like a metronome, set the pace in the workshop. Miguel, now with broader shoulders and a voice a couple of tones deeper, was finishing polishing a shoe, but his mind was a few blocks away, at the bronze statue in the plaza.

He no longer had to hide his guitar under patches and blankets; his faithful stringed companion rested proudly in a corner of the workshop, its skull design gleaming in the Mexican sunlight. At sixteen, Miguel had become the soul of the town; he was no longer just "the boy who got lost on the Day of the Dead," but the young man who brought music back to the Rivera family.

— I'm almost finished, Grandma! —

he exclaimed, leaving the shoe on the table and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

He stood up, stretching his back, and as he passed the family altar, he paused for a second. His eyes fell on the photo of Hector, Imelda, and Coco, his great-grandmother, but small. A small smile, full of a complicity only he understood, appeared on his face. He adjusted the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and picked up his usual red jacket, although it was looser now, since he had grown.

— There's a serenade in the plaza today, and I don't plan on being late or missing it. Hector gave me some advice in my last dream, and... well, let's just say my Mexican Grito is better than ever.

He said while smiling at Dante, his dog now older and more tired, but loyal to Miguel. Dante let out a bark. Miguel stroked Dante's head and left the workshop to get ready, since today he would be part of the serenade in the plaza.