The inside of the church was not a church at all.
The pews, the altar, the stained glass—all were gone. Instead, Mateo and Luna found themselves in a vast, twilight landscape. The ground beneath their feet was soft, covered in a carpet of fallen, glowing marigold petals. The sky was a perpetual, deep indigo, lit not by sun or moon, but by millions of floating, gentle lights that resembled candle flames and flickering paper lanterns. In the distance, soft, melodic notes of forgotten *sones* played on an unseen guitar.
But the most astonishing features were the structures. Rising from the petal-field were countless, intricate shelves and cases, not made of wood or stone, but of woven light and shadow. They stretched into the dimness farther than the eye could see. Upon these shelves rested objects that shimmered with a soft, internal glow: a half-knitted sock with a bone needle still stuck in it; a locket with a faded portrait; a toy wooden truck; a bundle of love letters tied with a crumbling ribbon; a single, polished soldier's boot.
"It's… a library," Luna whispered, her artist's soul soaring at the impossible beauty. "But a library of… things."
"*Objetos con alma*," said a calm, melodic voice. "Objects with a soul."
They spun around. A man stood nearby, meticulously arranging a shelf of pocket watches that all showed different, stopped times. He was tall and slender, dressed in an immaculate but old-fashioned suit the color of dust. His face was ageless, serene, and his eyes held the patience of centuries. He was not a spirit, Mateo sensed, but something else—a custodian.
"Welcome to the Archive," the man said, offering a slight bow. "I am Teódulo. You are late for the festivities, and early for next year's. This is the time in-between. The time of sorting."
"Sorting?" Mateo asked, his voice echoing strangely in the vast space.
"Of course," Teódulo said, gently polishing a glowing harmonica. "The Day of the Dead is a grand reunion. But not every story finds its ending. Not every gift is received. Not every forgiveness is granted. These," he gestured to the infinite shelves, "are the remnants. The tears not shed at the grave. The jokes not shared at the ofrenda. The apologies that stuck in throats. They have weight here. They become… this."
Mateo's gaze swept the archive, his heart sinking. Amongst this infinity of unfinished business, how could he possibly find his mother? The hope that had brought him here began to feel foolish.
Luna, however, was captivated. She pointed to a nearby shelf where a small, glowing recipe card hovered. "That's Señora Gutierrez's mole recipe! She always said she'd take it to her grave because her daughter never learned to make it."
"Indeed," Teódulo nodded. "A story of knowledge unpassed. It will wait here until the daughter's heart is open to receive it, or until the memory fades from the world of the living."
Mateo stepped forward, the obsidian stone warm in his palm. "I'm looking for someone. My mother. Isabella Silva. She… she just arrived."
Teódulo's perpetual calm softened into something like sympathy. "The newly arrived often walk the Petal Paths, drawn by the strongest threads from the living world." He pointed down one of the aisles, where the floating lights seemed to cluster more thickly. "The love of a son is a very strong thread, Mateo Silva. But be warned: the path is made of your memories. Walk carefully. Not all memories are gentle."
Before Mateo could ask what he meant, a commotion erupted from a darker aisle of shelves to their left. The melodic air was torn by a sound of rasping, angry sobs.
"It's mine! Give it back! You have no right!"
Teódulo sighed, a sound like rustling leaves. "Ah. Sebastián. He is always difficult the day after."
A man stumbled into the main aisle. He was translucent, like a figure seen through mist, dressed in a tattered charro jacket. He was clutching a glowing, ornate silver spur to his chest, weeping with a raw, desperate grief. Following him, her hands on her hips, was a woman who shone more brightly. She wore a simple, clean dress and an expression of immense frustration.
"Sebastián, you stubborn mule!" the woman scolded. "It has been thirty years! Your brother is an old man now. He left this spur for you every year, asking for your forgiveness for the argument you had. Every year you refused to take it! You let your pride keep you from your own family's ofrenda!"
"He insulted my honor!" Sebastián wailed, his form flickering.
"He called your horse slow! It *was* slow!" the woman shot back. "Now, he is too frail to build an ofrenda. The thread is fraying. This," she pointed to the spur, "is the last chance. Take the forgiveness, Sebastián! Let the story end so we can all move on!"
Mateo and Luna watched, frozen, as the drama of a decades-old feud played out in the land of the dead. It was a story, alive and heavy, just as Abuelita Rosa had warned.
Teódulo approached the spirits, his voice a soothing balm. "Carmen, your passion does not help. Sebastián, look at the spur. See not the insult, but the years of offering. Your brother's love is in every polish of the silver."
Slowly, weeping still, Sebastián looked down at the glowing object in his hands. The anger in his translucent face began to melt, replaced by a profound, weary sadness. "I… I miss him," he whispered.
As he said the words, the spur in his hands flared brightly, then dissolved into a shower of golden sparks that floated upwards, joining the constellation of lights in the indigo sky. Sebastián let out a long, shuddering breath, and his form solidified, becoming clearer and more peaceful. A soft smile touched Carmen's lips. She nodded to Teódulo and led Sebastián away down a different path, one that seemed to grow brighter as they walked.
"What happened?" Luna asked, her sketchbook forgotten.
"A story reached its conclusion," Teódulo said, turning back to them. "The apology was finally accepted. The weight is gone. Sebastián is now free to truly rest, and Carmen, who was his sister and has long waited for him, can guide him to the quieter gardens." He looked pointedly at Mateo. "Not all journeys here are about finding someone. Sometimes, they are about letting a story finish."
Mateo thought of his mother, of the cancer that took her too quickly, of the conversations they never had. Did he have unfinished business? Was that why he felt her presence so strongly, why the door had opened?
He looked down the aisle Teódulo had indicated, the Petal Path. He had to try.
"Thank you, Teódulo," Mateo said.
The archivist bowed again. "Remember the rules of your Abuelita. And remember this: in this land, you see not just with your eyes, but with your heart. What you seek, seeks you."
Nodding to Luna, Mateo stepped onto the path. With each step, the scent of jasmine grew stronger, and the floating lights around them began to shift and form shapes—not of objects, but of moments. A flickering image of his mother laughing as she taught him to dance. Another of her singing softly while watering her plants. The memories were gentle, beautiful.
But then, the path turned. The lights dimmed. The scent of medicine and antiseptic cut through the jasmine. A memory, cold and sharp, surfaced: his mother in a hospital bed, small and frail, trying to smile for him while he sat, helpless and angry, in a plastic chair.
Mateo stopped, a cold sweat breaking on his neck. This was the memory he had tried to bury under the celebrations. This was the unfinished story.
And at the end of the darkened path, a figure was waiting.