the stars don't shine, they burn

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/35913505.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M, Gen
Fandom: Encanto (2021)
Relationship: Bruno Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal, Bruno Madrigal & Madrigal Family,
Bruno Madrigal & Dolores Madrigal, Dolores Madrigal & Mirabel
Madrigal, Isabela Madrigal & Luisa Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal,
Mirabel Madrigal & Madrigal Family, Félix Madrigal/Pepa Madrigal,
Agustín Madrigal/Julieta Madrigal
Character: Bruno Madrigal, Mirabel Madrigal, Dolores Madrigal, Camilo Madrigal,
Antonio Madrigal, Luisa Madrigal, Isabela Madrigal, Pepa Madrigal,
Julieta Madrigal, Félix Madrigal, Agustín Madrigal, "Abuela" Alma
Madrigal, Pedro Madrigal
Additional Tags: Papa Bruno Au, Parent Bruno Madrigal, Bruno Madrigal is Mirabel
Madrigal's Parent, Villain Bruno Madrigal, in which Bruno is a good dad,
but decides the magic has gotta go, and Mirabel is... not on board with
this, (...initially.), Neurodivergent Bruno Madrigal, Bruno Madrigal Needs
a Hug, Mirabel Madrigal Needs a Hug, you know what? they really do!
Stats: Published: 2021-12-24 Updated: 2022-01-02 Chapters: 3/? Words:
7269

the stars don't shine, they burn

by Lady_Stormbraver

Summary

AU: In which Bruno Madrigal is a little less forgiving, and a little less honest.

In his mind, the so-called miracle has been nothing but a curse on their family— and none
more so than himself and his young daughter. If she can’t have a gift, then why should
anyone else get to keep theirs?

If destroying the family’s magic is Mirabel’s destiny, then he will do whatever it takes to
make sure that this future comes to pass, even if it means watching her grow up through
ever-growing cracks in the Casita’s walls. His estrellita deserves the chance to shine bright,
and he will make their family see her.

(He doesn’t account for her tenacity.)

Notes

Or: What happens when we take the Papa!Bruno AU and combine it with the Villain!Bruno
AU.
Shoutout to @KoreKoreFaunaAndFlora (@renrenlady on tumblr) for pioneering the
Papa!Bruno AU, and to @silvercdeer on tumblr for their beautiful fanart featuring lyrics
from "creature" by half-alive that got me thinking about Villain!Bruno.

Disclaimers: I own nothing, and I sadly speak very little Spanish. I’m always open to any
constructive feedback, especially from humans who are more fluent speakers and more
well-versed in Colombian culture! This story is beautiful, and I want to honor it well.
 Prologue
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Growing through the creature here

I'm trying to see when it's unclear

Hidden in the space between

Hero and the enemy”

—"creature", half-alive

Dolores Madrigal hears everything that happens within Casita’s walls.

Everything.

The day after her prima Mirabel’s failed gift ceremony, she wakes abruptly to the grating sound of
a new scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch from the walls beside the kitchen. She groans and buries her
head further into her noise-resistant pillows; there have long since been a few mice who call Casita
home, but it seems they’ve now acquired a friend.

A friend who is entirely too big and too loud, who bumps into beams and hisses and mutters and
it’s too much, too much noise for this early in the morning, she can never take a break—

Wait.

She sits up in bed, focusing.

Ch, ch, ch.

She knows that sound.

Dolores has what her Papá calls an eidetic memory for sounds; she can hear a pin drop from a mile
away and know exactly what and where it is, and exactly what it would sound like if it occurred
again.

Ch, ch, ch.

Sand falling from an hourglass, piling up on the floor, ever shifting as people step, step, step,
clinging to clothing and hair.

Clinging, specifically, to Tío Bruno’s clothes and hair.

She lets out a startled squeak and dives back into bed, mind racing, because what does this mean?

Dolores Madrigal hears everything.

Especially things the adults in her family try to hide from her.

She knows Tío Bruno left last night.

She knows it has to do with the prophecy he didn’t want to give Abuela.

She knows that Mirabel cried herself to sleep, over the absence of both her gift and her papá.

So why on earth is Dolores hearing him in the walls right now?

She wants to be mad at him, but she’s honestly too confused. When people leave, they generally,
y’know, leave. Instead, he’s still here, and he should be here but no, not like this.

I should go ask him what he’s doing, she thinks, sitting up once more. Tell him Mira’s heartbroken.
Beg him not to go.

Dolores Madrigal isn’t a loud person. She doesn’t think of herself as bright or funny or clever or
talented.

But she is a Madrigal, and say what you will about the Madrigals (and she knows, she hears every
word ever spoken about her family), but one trait they all possess in abundance is determination.

In this respect, Dolores is no different.

So she gets to her feet in silence, tiptoeing to her bedroom door, bracing herself for the inevitable
onslaught of white noise that occurs whenever she opens it. She breathes through the sickness that
churns in her gut at the assault to her senses, then relaxes as the noise ebbs to a tolerable, if not
pleasant, hum. Once her hearing adjusts to the new influx of sounds, she’s able to peer down the
dark hallway between her room and the kitchen. Only a sliver of light meets her gaze, and she’s
half tempted to ask Casita for help, but she doesn’t want to wake the rest of her family.

Not yet.

Ch, ch, ch.

She frowns and moves forward. One foot in front of the other, and then a creeeeak from the nearby
oil painting on the wall that makes her stop in her tracks and wince.

If it really is Tío Bruno back there, then that’s just rude.

Shaking it off, she steps towards the painting, noting with interest that it’s not lying flat against the
wall as usual. There’s a miniscule gap, so slight that if it wasn’t for the tiny gust of air she hears,
she’d have missed it.

Triumphant, she grins and moves to ever-so-gently pull the painting out towards herself. “Tío
Bruno?” she whispers experimentally, her voice echoing softly through the walls.

Pitter-patter, ch, ch, scritch-scratch, ch, ch.

No other answer, but that’s all she needs to hear.

She makes to crawl into the walls, to go after him and demand to talk, but the walls are… well…
dark. Drafty, full of cobwebs, and she can’t see the ground all that well, especially at night.

She shivers and shakes and deliberates for a solid four minutes before deciding that no, lo siento,
Mirabel, she can’t do this. Courage belongs to her brother and cousins, not to her. If her tío doesn’t
want to speak to her, who is she, little Dolores, to make him?

She returns to her room and tosses and turns for the rest of the night, wondering what to tell her
family about her tío hiding in the walls.
…If anything at all.

For she is only Dolores, only eleven years old, and nobody will believe her. She didn’t even see Tío
Bruno, after all; she has no real proof he was there. She can practically hear Abuela already—
“You’re hearing the mice, mi nieta, nothing more”— and the family will agree, because Abuela is
wise and Abuela is right.

What can Dolores do other than what she always, always does: listen?

She is twelve, and Mirabel is calling their Tío and Tía Papá and Mamá, and Isabela and Luisa her
sisters.

(It takes some time before everyone stops flinching at this. Less time, Dolores thinks, than it
probably should.)

She is thirteen, and Camilo and Mirabel have forgotten Tío Bruno entirely.

(She, Isa, and Luisa never forget. Sometimes, they’ll trade glances across the table, secret whispers
in Dolores’s room. Isa loves Mirabel, but she never forgets, and it’s easier to blame someone
younger than you when things are bad.)

She is fourteen, and her hermanito comes home from school with scrapes and bruises from
throwing punches with kids who talk nasty about the Madrigal with no gift.

(Mamá shoves one of Tía’s magical arepas down his throat, kisses him on the forehead, and storms
over to the school in the most literal sense. This does not change anything.)

She is fifteen, and Mirabel takes up embroidery with the colorful scraps of fabric that are—
mysteriously, very mysteriously— left by the oil painting near Dolores’s room every now and
then.

(He leaves the scraps and other trinkets. Dolores leaves the food and water. It’s a mutually
beneficial arrangement.)

She is sixteen, and the telenovelas begin.

(“Carmelita, how could you,” she cries out tearfully around a mouthful of concada, lounging on her
bed with an ear to the wall and a tray of snacks in her lap. “He trusted you!”

“...You alright, Loli?” Camilo asks from her doorway, an eyebrow raised skeptically; although
she’s not surprised, she’d heard him coming, she shrieks and throws a concada at him anyway.)

The years go on, and Dolores watches and listens.

Always, always listens.

And then: She is twenty-one, and her baby brother Antonio has just received his gift— animals,
oye, all that noise — and she is dancing with her brothers and doing her very best to tune out the
chatter and music and roaring and chirping surrounding them, overpowering her senses and
threatening to drown her. In the midst of all the chaos, there is a single sharp, shaky intake of
breath from Mirabel’s general direction. By the time Dolores glances over to check if her prima is
alright, she’s gone.

Gone like...
 A sharp spike of anxiety lodges itself in her chest, but Dolores shakes her head at herself, taking a
few deep breaths for good measure. No, no, it won’t be the same. Mira’s fine, she’s always fine.

With a bit more effort than usual, she turns back to Camilo and Antonio and keeps dancing.

Mirabel is not, in fact, fine.

Chapter End Notes

Final shoutout: My wonderful beta and best friend @Starcrier, who has patiently
listened to me ramble nonsensically about Encanto for a week, and without whom this
story wouldn’t exist.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

(Stay tuned for both Mirabel and Bruno being very much not fine.)
 Patient and Steadfast and Steady
Chapter Summary

Mirabel is fine.
Totally fine.
Everything about her life is fine.

Chapter Notes

Disclaimer: I don't own Encanto, nor am I fluent in Spanish, etc.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mirabel runs, and Casita guides her to safe places.

Tiles shift and shudder beneath her feet, leading her past everyone else’s gold-lit doors, away from
the light and crowds and suffocating muchness that is Antonio’s new jungle-room.

And far, far away from the family photo that she isn’t included in.

(Wasn’t even deliberately or maliciously excluded from, just was… forgotten.

She’s not sure which stings worse.)

She races down to the ground floor, swings around one pillar, and pauses to catch her breath at the
next, leaning against the post for support and pressing a hand to her stomach.

She can’t stay in the courtyard, she knows that. While the whole town is currently preoccupied
with the fiesta in Antonio’s room, it’s getting late, and she knows a few parents with young
children will begin to make their way outside at any point.

This can’t be her resting place, not if she’s looking for a moment to let herself be less than fine, so
she breathes out a “Vamos, Casita,” and keeps running.

Mirabel is always the fine one.

Always the one with an easy smile, always the one giving reassuring hugs, always the one
watching and cheering from the shadows while her family shines brightly like stars in the sky.

Always counted on to be fine with that.

And honestly? She’s beginning to get sick of it.

She’s about to leave Casita’s grounds altogether, but she’s stopped in her tracks at the front
entryway by a wave of rattling golden-brown tiles.

She huffs and folds her arms, tapping a foot less than patiently. “What?”
Casita rumbles in response, then lifts the tiles under her feet so that she is carried gently towards a
nearby staircase that leads up to the roof. Despite her current dark mood, she lets out a fond laugh,
shaking her head. “Okay, okay, I hear you! Rooftop it is.”

She clambers up onto the roof just in time for the first firework to go off.

The night sky is, suddenly and thoroughly, illuminated by a million dancing sparks, and her breath
catches in her throat at the sight. Reds and blues and greens and golds collide in great bursts of
light, and her heart skips a beat at the beautiful multitude of colors even as her nose burns with
tears.

She would’ve given anything to have had this kind of celebration after her own ceremony.

Instead, she remembers returning to a dimly-lit nursery, silent save for the sound of her sobs, and
curling up in her Mamá’s arms and hiding her face away from the world.

She remembers a golden light dying out and vanishing into nothingness at her touch, and the
feeling that her family’s pride in her had done much the same.

She sighs, crouching down carefully to sit on the sloped roof with her knees drawn to her chest. It’s
been ten years since that night, and she’s done everything within her power to help her family and
the village, to make up for her lack of gift, to earn her piece of the miracle.

She’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into every hobby she could, from embroidery to dancing to
accordion to singing to helping Mamá cook, and while she genuinely enjoys each of those things,
she’s self-aware enough to recognize that she probably wouldn’t be as eager to be good at them if
she had a gift of her own.

She rests her chin on her knees, sighing again.

She’s fifteen now, far removed from that awful night, but in so many respects, she wonders if she’s
ever really grown up from being that five-year-old girl who stood in front of her door and watched
her dreams crumble to ash.

The girl who, in the following days and weeks, got on her knees and begged for Casita to bless her
like the others, and received no answer.

The fireworks boom loudly all around her, radiant in their beauty and light, and she thinks, Will it
ever be my turn?

“I’m ready, Casita,” she says aloud, and something in her mind clicks into place.

“I’m ready,” she repeats, jumping to her feet, arms thrown out to help steady herself at the sudden
notion. “C’mon, Casita, you know I’d do so much good with a gift of my own! I’ve waited for so
long, I’ve been steady and patient but I want to shine, if you’ll just give me a chance!”

She stands firm and watches the firelit sky with eager eyes, clasping her hands as if in prayer.
“Please, please, please, Casita. Please don’t let me be too late for a miracle.”

When the fireworks have their grand finale and she climbs down, back to the ground, back to
reality, a tiny spark of hope flares within her chest, whispering that maybe, just maybe, she’ll find
her gift and her purpose yet. It burns, quiet but steady, and while she’s still not completely fine, she
feels a bit closer to it than she has all day.

Hope shrinks into fear when a vase shatters on the courtyard floor, and a tile cracks wide open in
the ground.

They don’t believe her.

There are cracks in Casita’s walls, the magic is flickering, and they don’t believe her.

She clenches her fist, newly healed by her Mamá’s arepa con queso, and walks away from the
kitchen with stiff, determined strides.

No matter what Mamá says to be gentle and comforting, Mirabel knows her family better than that.

Not only do they not believe her, oh no, it’s much worse than that: They think she made it up out of
jealousy over Antonio’s gift. As if she’d ever do anything to ruin his special night! As if she loves
her primito so little!

She lets out a disparaging “Hah!” and sprints up the stairs, foul mood firmly in place. Dolores
meets her at the top of the staircase, startling her so much that she trips over her own feet and slams
her shoulder into the bannister with a yelp of pain.

“Sorry,” Dolores squeaks, clasping her hands together in front of her. Her dark eyes are warm with
sympathy. “I just wanted to check in on how you’re doing. Today was… a lot for you, hm?”

Mirabel squints up at her cousin for two seconds, then rolls her eyes. “Knock it off, Camilo.”

Dolores huffs and, in only a second, shifts smoothly into her younger brother. “Every time,”
Camilo groans, nudging her playfully in the side. “There’s no fooling you, eh Mira?”

“Maybe that’s my gift,” Mirabel snarks, and he winces.

“Today was that bad, huh?”

Mirabel folds her arms and averts her gaze. “Can we maybe not discuss this out here? The walls
have ears, y’know.”

“Yeah, good point.” Camilo clears his throat and elevates his voice, even though they both know
it’s unnecessary. “Go to bed, Dolores!”

“You first, Milo! ” his sister calls back from down the hallway in her own room, and he snorts and
shrugs.

“Not sure we’re going to be able to avoid all the ears in Casita, but sure, you can come to my room
for a sec.”

“Thanks,” Mirabel mumbles as she follows him to his lit door.

She’s only been in his room a handful of times; Camilo isn’t the type to hang out in his room for
much other than sleeping. He’s always outside, always coming to find them first, always poking
around town and finding amusement wherever he can.

Where Antonio’s new room is a jungle filled to the brim with animals, Camilo’s is an intricate
opera house with a grand, spotlight-adorned stage at the center of it all. There are no mirrors
anywhere to be seen, and his bed is hidden backstage. It’s beautiful yet off-putting, not wholly
unlike the boy it was created for, and Mirabel watches in fascination as Camilo strides onstage and
snaps his fingers, causing two cushioned couches to drop onto the stage, facing each other. With a
quick word, the spotlight dims to a gentle glow, and Camilo hops onto one of the couches, his
lanky legs hanging over the armrest. He waves a hand at the other couch, and she sits, smoothing
out her skirt absently.

“Okay, hit me with it,” he drawls, and she can’t help but snort.

“Alright, drama queen,” she teases, and he sits upright with an affronted gasp, laying a hand over
his heart.

“Drama queen?” he echoes in an outraged tone. “Drama queen? This is twin slander, and I will not
stand for it!”

She’s giggling at his antics, but the word twin gives her pause, and she smiles fondly at him.
“Aww, Milo, it’s been awhile since you’ve called us twins.”

He shoots her a lopsided grin, scooting forward to nudge her in the shin with his sandal-clad foot.
“But of course. We’re twins for life, yo. Nursery bros, if you will.”

She lets out a loud cackle, shaking her head. “Oye, stop, that was truly awful.” She nudges him
back, still smiling. His true gift, she’s always felt, has been making everyone around him smile. “I
appreciate the sentiment, though. Twins for life.”

“But seriously, Mira.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at her with a
furrowed brow. Her heart drops, because if even Camilo is being serious now, it’s time for her to
face the music. “What was that back in Toñito’s room, with the whole ‘the magic is in danger’
thing?”

She groans, throwing her head back against the couch and staring up at the stage’s rafters. “Okay,
look, I know it looks bad, but I know what I saw! The magic was actually in danger, and I wasn’t– I
swear I wasn’t trying to take the attention away from Antonio. I’m so proud of and excited for him
to have his own gift. You’ve got to at least believe that.”

He studies her for a moment, in the way she often catches him studying others so as to make his
transformations more accurate, before nodding. “Alright. I believe you.”

She gapes at him, caught off guard. “Wait, really?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know about the magic-in-danger part, but I do know you wouldn’t hurt
Toñito. You’re not a petty person– well, okay, except when it comes to Isa.”

“Señorita Perfecta,” she chimes in, with an instinctive roll of her eyes.

“My point: I know you, and I know you weren’t trying to be dramatic.” He leans back and smirks.
“That’s more my style than yours, anyway.”

She beams at him. “Thanks, Camilo. That means a lot.”

“No problemo, twin.” He stands, stretches, and ruffles her hair, earning a whine and a smack on the
arm. “So. I’m not gonna kick you out, but I am gonna say that it’s late and I need my beauty sleep
after all that partying.”

“Sleep isn’t going to do a thing for that face,” she retorts with a grin, even as she stands. He sticks
his tongue out at her and makes to start shoving her off the stage. “Okay, okay, I’m going, geez.
But I’m gonna get you to believe me about the magic, too. Somehow.”

“Good luck with that, prima,” he says cheerfully as he throws an arm around her shoulders and
leads her past aisles of crimson cushioned seats to the opera house’s grand entryway. “Buenas
noches, no taking down Casita without me!”

“No promises,” she returns in the same cheerful tone, stepping through the golden doorway and
back to a dark, quiet hallway. When she turns back to bid her cousin goodnight, the door is closed.

Alone once more, she sighs, still feeling a little foolish and loca and, above all else, exhausted.

But, hey, at least someone in her family doesn’t currently think the worst of her.

It doesn’t fix anything, but it does help her breathe a bit easier as she returns to the nursery, quiet
and dark as it was after her own ceremony, in a way that it hasn’t been for the past five years with
Antonio. Now that he has his own, way cooler room, she’s back to being alone, without even a gift
to keep her company.

But… it’s fine.

It will be fine.

The cracks in the walls, her lack-of-gift, losing her favorite roommate, all of it.

Totally fine.

Every time Mirabel closes her eyes, she sees the cracks growing around the candle, hears Casita
rumbling and fracturing all around her.

She can’t sleep, so she decides to check on the candle.

Just in case. Just to make sure that everything is okay.

She’s definitely not still freaked out about the cracks she saw.

So, barefoot and in her nightgown, she sneaks silently across rooftops towards the candle, only to
hide against the wall while Abuela stands by the windowsill and pours her heart out to Abuelo
Pedro.

It’s… frustrating, hearing Abuela acknowledge that the magic is in danger when she’d dismissed
Mirabel entirely at the party.

Cracks in our Casita… if only our family knew how vulnerable we truly are… if our miracle is
dying…

Her heart drops like a stone at the words, her cheeks flush at the memory of the way Abuela had
looked at her, and she has to bite her lip to keep from shouting and alerting Abuela to her presence.

Mirabel had felt so small, so foolish, when Abuela brushed off her concerns, when the whole
family just stared in disappointment. It doesn’t seem at all fair that she was right to be worried, but
no, the whole town thinks she just went a little loca, nothing more. The injustice burns in her chest,
and she wishes she could defend herself.

Even with all this frustration burning her up inside, she’s relieved that at least someone else is
concerned about the magic. Unnerving, though, that even Abuela– wise, steady, Abuela– has no
idea how to fix this.

The thought strikes her suddenly, clearly: Maybe… maybe that’s where she, Mirabel, comes in?
 Maybe she is meant to help preserve the others’ gifts. Maybe this is her purpose in the family,
maybe that’s what it’s been all along.

Maybe this is how she can be of service to them, how she will earn her place in the miracle.

She feels as if she’s standing on a precipice, about to make a huge decision that could lead to either
falling or flying… or maybe that’s just the fact that she’s standing on a roof talking. Either way,
her heart hammers within her chest, and determination, fierce and bright, floods through her veins.

My brother Bruno lost his way in this family, Mamá had said in the kitchen. The implication stings;
she’s not losing her way, she’s not.

If anything, she thinks, she’s finding it. Perhaps for the first time.

I’m not going to lose my way, she declares to herself, resolute. I’m going to save the magic. And
nothing is going to stop me.

On her way back to her room, she trips over a small spool of thread. Delighted at the unexpected
gift, she crouches down to pick it up with a wide grin that feels more real than any of her smiles
have been today.

It’s a shimmery emerald green thread this time, soft to the touch and fine in quality. Vivid images
burst forth in her mind like fireworks, idea after idea for its use— a new vine for her skirt, maybe,
or another butterfly on her collar, or ooh, threading for her new sandals...

Before she loses herself entirely to her imagination, she holds the spool close to her chest, smiles,
and murmurs a soft, “Gracias ” to the unknown friend who’s been leaving her little trinkets like
this for years.

She’s pretty sure it’s Dolores, but Dolores always says, in an airy tone that Mirabel is never sure
means she’s teasing or serious, that it’s the mice who live in the walls. Regardless, it’s nice to
know that someone sees her, and she figures this is Dolores’s covert way of letting her know that
she believes her about the cracks in Casita’s walls.

I’ll track her down in the morning, Mirabel decides before sitting at her desk and getting to work
with the new thread. If anyone knows what’s going on with Casita, it’s Dolores.

“De nada, mi mariposa,” comes a rough, ragged whisper from within the walls.

(Dolores is the only one who hears it.)

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so very much for your kudos and kind reviews!!! They make me do
little happy dances around my kitchen!!

Shoutout once more to my lovely bestie and beta @Starcrier, whose input and
feedback on this story gives me LIFE.

Note: I really love all the creative spins I've seen on the "Camilo is Mirabel's twin"
AU, but if you're looking for that plotline here, I'm sorry to disappoint! I am simply
very firmly on the "Camilo and Mirabel are bros" train, since they are the same age
and grew up in the nursery together before he got his gift, and I wanted to dive into
that dynamic a bit here. Biologically, they're cousins, but spiritually, they share one
(1) brain cell.

Next chapter: Nobody talks about Bruno, so he's going to have to do the talking for
himself.
 Deep in the Woodwork
Chapter Summary

Bruno Madrigal, doing what he does every day: Watching, listening, and sneaking
arepas.

Until Mirabel starts asking questions about him, that is.

Chapter Notes

Bruno: Hola Casita :)

Casita: *is not putting up with his bs*

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Bruno Madrigal knows everything that goes on within Casita’s walls.

Everything.

No, he doesn’t have a gift for supersonic hearing like his sobrina, but, well…

When you spend ten years hiding in the crevices of your childhood home, with no entertainment
other than the telenovelas you create with your little rat amigos, no hobbies except worrying about
and attempting to plan for the future…

There’s not much else you can do except, one, bury yourself in self-loathing, and two, watch and
listen through the cracks in the walls.

So yeah, he sees it all, even— especially — what he doesn’t want to see:

Mirabel, crying her little heart out in Julieta’s arms because she didn’t get a gift, and because he’s
not there to comfort her.

Mirabel, kneeling beside the nursery bed every night for the next few weeks, praying for a gift that
never comes.

Mirabel, running after their family and trying her very best to keep up, to help, to carve a space of
her own among the others’ clearly-defined roles.

Mirabel, growing up and forgetting him, looking every day more and more like the girl from his
vision (every day more and more like her mother), blissfully unaware of her fate.

I’m so proud of her, he tells the rats, and then, I’m so glad she’s turning out to be nothing like me.

The family is eating outside this morning, apparently, but he sits down at his “table” anyway and
listens through the cracks to the morning’s conversation as Julieta wrangles together breakfast and
everyone else flutters in and out of the kitchen like butterflies.
It’s always Julieta. Has been since she learned how to properly cook a buñuelo at seven years old.

She’d told him once, and only once, when her girls were young and she’d been called upon to feed
both them and their entire town, that it was a burden, sometimes, her gift.

A tired laugh, a helpless shrug, and she’d gone back to rolling out dough.

But if I don’t do it, who will?

Her words from long ago echo through the cracks in the walls now. Julieta never complains, but he
knows that this burden has not lessened over time. From what little he’s glimpsed of her, he can see
its weight: her grey hairs, her perpetually tired eyes, her smile that is steady but often strained. His
sister is exhausted, and will never catch a break from the family and town’s needs.

Will never let herself catch a break, he corrects himself, because as he has learned, it is possible to
walk away from a gift that’s a burden.

That said, out of the three of them, Julieta is and always has been the good one, the helpful one, so
he knows that she may keel over before ever letting Mamá know how heavy the burden hangs on
her shoulders.

But then–

“Morning, Mamí! Here, let me help with that.”

At the sound of her bright voice, he can’t help but crack a smile.

That’s mi mariposita, always wanting to help.

“Gracias, mija.” A pause, and then: “How are you feeling this morning? Any better?”

He frowns. Better? Did something bad happen?

It had been impossible to keep from noticing (or to get a decent nap in during) the whirlwind of
preparations for his youngest sobrino’s gift ceremony the day before. Casita had thrummed with
excitement, or perhaps anxiety, but he’s got very little context for how the ceremony had actually
gone down.

He’d done every ritual he could think of, praying that the little boy– Antonio, he thinks his name
is– would walk away from that door free from the burden of a gift. True, it would hurt him for
now, just as it had Mirabel all those years ago, but it’d be easier in the long run once his final
prophecy came true.

But, as per usual with his accursed luck, he doesn’t get what he prays for.

Instead, his ratoncitos had come shrieking back into their home in the walls, visibly shaken over
the sheer number of predatory animals that took over Casita within moments of the boy receiving
his gift.

He’d sighed, tossed another handful of salt over his right shoulder, and muttered, “Sorry, kid. I
tried.”

And he’d thought of Mirabel, even last night when he’d been Jorge more than Bruno, frantically
patching up the cracks that crept up to the candela and nearly rent Papá’s portrait in two, because it
wasn’t time yet, she wasn’t ready .
He always thinks of Mirabel, of course, but the news of the boy’s gift broke his heart, because with
it, he knew that she’d be, once more, cast aside in the shadows, alone.

The future he’d never wanted for her.

It’s why he’d made sure to find the prettiest thread he could for her last night, while everyone was
partying in his sobrino’s new room. He’d wanted her to know that, no matter what, someone in this
Casita saw her and loved her for who she was.

But had it really been that bad for her last night...?

Mirabel lets out a laugh that appears to convince Julieta as little as it does him. “Of course! I’m
over it. Have you seen Dolores yet? I need to thank her for the thread she got me last night. Look, I
used it for this green vine and leaves here— isn’t it pretty?”

He peers through the nearest crack, desperate to get a glimpse, and then he sees it– a shimmery
emerald thread running along the hem of her skirt. It’s beautiful, mija, he thinks with a fond smile.
You’ve got such talent for creating things, just like your Mamá.

Julieta agrees, but then gives a thoughtful hum and says, “Mira, mi vida, you don’t have to pretend
to be fine, you know.”

“I’m not pretending, Mamá.” Mirabel’s cheery tone turns a touch exasperated. “ So, any sign of
Dolores?”

“Pretending what, Miraboo?” Agustín joins them, moving to kiss Julieta’s cheek and grab a plate of
arepas de huevo that’s ready to be taken outside.

“It’s nothing! Buenos días, Pa.”

Bruno’s heart twists in silent agony, as it always does when she calls Agustín her father. It’s his
own fault, he knows, and he is grateful to his very bones that Agustín and Julieta love her as their
own, as he’d begged them to so long ago, but…

But mierda, does it sting, even now.

He drops his head into his hands. The rats abandon his head and shoulders in favor of scurrying off
to their own devices. Within seconds, he is alone– and not the alone that he typically is, but really
and truly alone– in the pathetic crawlspace he calls a bedroom.

There is another world, another timeline, where Mirabel knows exactly who he is, runs to him and
Amaya with a squeal of “Papí, Mamí! ” for her entire life, and has a gift that’s every bit as special
and wondrous as she is.

Where she knows exactly how much her Papá Bruno loves her.

But no, he is Bad Luck Bruno, always and forever, so there’s no chance that perfect timeline
could’ve ever come to pass.

Both of his girls had been destined to follow the fates he’d foreseen, and it breaks his heart anew
every day.

What I wouldn’t give for you to be here, mi amor, he thinks, Amaya’s golden laughter ringing in
his ears despite his best efforts to cast her from his mind. None of this would’ve happened if I had
somehow saved you.
He bites his lip hard to keep from letting out an agonized howl, tasting blood, and tries to refocus
on the conversation in the kitchen.

“I’ve got the tamales and cayeye,” Mirabel is saying, skirting around her parents to grab two food-
laden plates. She executes a little spin, nearly losing a tamale in the process, but recovers smoothly
and flashes them a grin. “Gotta go find Dolores!”

And she’s off again.

He’s about to get up and walk away, heart too heavy to listen to more, but Julieta’s words freeze
him in place.

“She’s still so hurt from last night, but she won’t admit it.”

Hurt? His Mirabel got hurt? His heartbeat spikes, and he grips the edges of the table tightly.

There is a pause, and then Agustín says, in a low whisper as if he doesn’t want the others to hear,
“I looked around Casita for cracks after the party. I didn’t find anything, but I swear I heard a
creaking sound from the tiles in the courtyard.”

Julieta sets down the seasoning herbs she’s holding and frowns, leaning a hip against the cabinets
and folding her arms. “You think she’s onto something?”

Wait.

Wait.

Bruno’s hands find their way to his scalp, tugging anxiously at his hair.

She knows?

She knows.

She knows!

She knows about the cracks in Casita.

Too soon, he’d told himself last night, but maybe he’d been wrong? Wouldn’t be the first time.

But maybe if she knows, she’s one step closer to seeing what he sees, one step closer to fulfilling
the fate she’d been given the night of her failed gift ceremony.

The fate he will give her.

He grins, only barely remembering to hold back a wild whoop of excitement. Hernando has
returned in full force, it seems.

He leaps up from his table, catching the fork and knife before they clatter to the ground from his
too-hasty burst of energy. For the first time in weeks, months, no, years , he feels properly awake,
and he swears he can almost hear a buzzing from his bones. His eyes flash the vivid green of his
visions, illuminating the shadowed wall-room with an eerie glow.

It’s almost time.

He feels it burning with every fiber of his being, but he’s got to do this right.
Everything goes terribly wrong, as per usual. Such is his life.

His day doesn’t start out that way, though.

After breakfast, once he knows the kitchen is clean and the family is off to do their usual duties
around town, he takes a deep breath, crosses his fingers, and then pushes on the oil painting that
allows him to leave the confines of the walls. The painting swings open with an obnoxious creeeak
, and he winces, knocking on the closest wooden beams and then his head with a brief prayer that
he was right and nobody is home. When all remains silent, he releases a breath and peers out into
the hallway. As he could’ve predicted even without visions, a plate of warm arepas de huevo waits
for him, and he smiles and whispers, “Gracias, Dolores.”

He’s got a nice plot twist planned for tonight’s telenovela, one he hopes she’ll enjoy. Amnesia,
long-lost aunts, broken hearts, all the works...

But that’s tonight, he reminds himself. Too much to do between now and then.

He’s got a prophecy to nudge towards fruition, after all.

With soft, careful steps, he emerges from the walls and into the hallway, whispering an “Hola,
Casita.”

Casita, in return, rumbles under his feet, nearly making him trip, and drops a tile on his head.

“Ouch,” he says mildly, rubbing his head and glaring up at the ceiling. “Look, I know you’re
upset, and I’m sorry, but it’s for the best.”

He has to jump to avoid two more tiles aimed directly at his person, and sighs. “ Oye, Casita, what
do you want from me? You know better than anyone how broken you are. You know this can’t go
on.”

Casita makes it abundantly clear how it feels about that comment. It’s a good thing he’s got a full
plate of Julieta’s healing arepas on hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles wearily. “Thanks for protecting me anyway… and for protecting her.”

Casita rumbles in response, more gently this time, and with that it seems their conversation is
finished. He sticks an arepa in his mouth and the others in the hidden pockets of his ruana, and the
bruises on his head already feel less tender. Chewing pensively, he raps his knuckles on the wall–
once, twice, three times.

For a few seconds, there is nothing, and then soft squeaks and the pitter-pattering of tiny feet echo
down the corridor until– there they are– a few of his little amigos appear in his field of vision,
scurrying over to his feet and shimmying up onto his ruana.

“Any news, Pedro?” he asks the rat perched closest to his neck, the one who’s sported a scar on his
chest for as long as Bruno’s known him.

The answer he gets makes his brow furrow in thought. It seems Mirabel is asking around, seeking
answers from his sobrinas who are old enough to remember him. Seeking information about–
about him.

He’s not sure whether to feel pride in or dread of her curiosity, her cleverness.

An hourglass comes to mind, then, remnants of sand falling to settle at the bottom, and a
thrumming in his chest that he hasn’t fully felt since his last prophecy came to fruition tells him
once more: It’s time, it’s time, it’s time.

Time to get ready to meet her, he thinks, and then gets a whiff of leftover café and is promptly
distracted, Hernando’s voice telling him, I need that immediately .

By the time he’s sipping a lukewarm yet heavenly cup of café, he begins to hear the telltale signs
of Mamá’s and Pepa’s voices making their way back from the village, down the well-worn path
towards Casita, and he knows he’s out of time.

He slips back behind the oil painting, with a quiet word to Pedro and the others to go keep an eye
on Mirabel, then crosses his fingers, holds his breath, falls backwards, and lets the walls swallow
him whole once more.

His day begins going downhill, and rapidly, when the house begins to rumble and crack and shake
like never before.

His rats tell him that she’s found it.

At long last, Mirabel has found the vision, and while he knows it has to happen this way, a part of
him– the part that still hears Amaya’s voice sometimes, the part that’s a good papá, the part that
loves his family despite everything– grieves over the pain it’ll bring her.

The rumbling and shaking that rattled him so deeply had apparently been his vision cave,
crumbling the moment Mirabel began connecting the pieces of the vision he’d left broken under
piles of sand.

“Good riddance,” he mumbles, and he swears Pedro laughs. “Always hated that place.”

A spike of anxiety that he can’t shake tells him to go check if she’s okay, and so he does, walking
alongside the walls and peering through crack after crack until he finds what he needs to see:

Mirabel, leaving his room, dusting herself off, and bumping into her Abuela by the staircase.

Bruno tenses at the sight.

Luisa joins them, breaking down in tears over her growing weakness and racing off to hide in her
room, and Bruno barely has time to feel any pity for her before his mother’s next words electrify
him.

“What did you do? What did you say to her?”

She can’t be blaming Mirabel for this, he thinks in disbelief, but no, it seems she can.

An old resentment washes over him in bitter waves, and he grits his teeth and clenches his fists as
she keeps talking.

“Stay away from Luisa,” she snaps at his daughter, who shrinks back. “Tonight, we can’t have any
more problems! And whatever you’re doing– stop doing it.”

Mirabel flinches, and it takes everything in him not to break through the walls and charge after his
Mamá, to defend his daughter because all she wants to do is help, all she wants to do is save the
miracle for a family that doesn’t deserve it, why can’t she see that? Can she not see how her harsh
words erode at her granddaughter’s heart?
Dios mío, he left to save Mirabel from this sort of treatment, but it’s happening anyway, and the
hurt in her eyes as she watches her Abuela’s retreating form shatters him.

This is exactly why he’s doing everything he can to ensure his prophecy comes true.

Soon, mi estrellita, he promises her grimly, resolve strengthening. Things will get better for you
soon.

An hour later, while everyone is downstairs preparing for the Guzmáns to arrive for dinner, he
sneaks silently down the upstairs hallway past everyone’s doors in search of more food. (The rats
ate the last of the arepas while he was preoccupied with checking on Mirabel. For shame– he’s
raised them better than this.)

Mirabel’s voice saying Tío Bruno gives him pause, and he glances down to find her in the
courtyard with Dolores, who whispers frantically in her ear.

She’s kept his secret for ten years, but he wonders if she’ll help point Mirabel his way.

Camilo’s depiction of him– seven foot frame, rats along his back, feasts on screams – has him
choking back laughter as he slips back behind the walls with pockets full of empanadas. Mirabel is
getting closer than ever.

Shifting sands, glowing green, it’s time, time, time.

Bruno runs.

He’s not proud of it, but well, nobody has ever called Bruno Madrigal a brave man, and he runs.

He’d thought he was ready, but no, oh no, he’s not. Not ready at all.

Not ready for Mirabel to look at him without recognition and call him Tío Bruno.

Not ready for her to confront him about the prophecy that will break her heart.

Not ready for her to ask him questions he doesn’t know how to answer.

So he shoves the pieces of that accursed vision in his pockets and runs.

“Hey! Stop!” Mirabel calls after him, but he ignores her, picking up speed as he ducks under beams
and vaults over gaps in the flooring, rounding corners as quickly as possible in an attempt to lose
her.

If she knows what’s good for her, she won’t follow him. She’ll leave the walls and return to Casita,
where she is safe and warm and her life isn’t about to shatter around her.

Rapid-fire footsteps behind him indicate that she apparently doesn’t, in fact, know what’s good for
her.

He turns another corner and leaps neatly over one of the biggest gaps in the woodwork, knowing
that she won’t make it, he’ll lose her, she’ll turn around and return to life as she knows it. Then,
maybe, he’ll work up the courage to approach her on his own terms, make sure the prophecy turns
out right.

The loud, sudden crack of splintering wood nearly makes him jump out of his skin, and he halts.
 “Help!” his daughter screams from somewhere behind him, and his heart turns to ice in his chest.

Another crack, a panicked gasp, and a desperate cry of, “Casita! Help me, help me!”

(“Help me, help me!” he’d screamed to Julieta while Amaya breathed her last and Mirabel wailed
in Pepa’s arms.)

No, no, nonono–

Bruno runs.

Only this time, he runs towards her, throwing his body onto the wooden planks and reaching out
just in time to catch her hand, just in time to save her before she falls.

Mirabel gasps and stares up at him, dark eyes blown wide with mingled terror and curiosity, and
with that, he meets his daughter’s gaze for the first time in ten years.

The first words that come out of his mouth?

“You’re very sweaty.”

Chapter End Notes

Again, thank you to each and every one of you who has left kudos, bookmarks, and
comments!!! I can't believe this little story is getting so much love, and I'm so grateful
to have you all along for the ride! You all are keeping me motivated to write, so thank
you, from the bottom of my heart.

Shoutout to the best beta in the world, my lovely @Starcrier, who summed up my
current sentiments towards my Bruno perfectly when she said, "i am cross with him
but would still snuggle". What a mood.

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