I found a dusty bell half-buried under marigold roots. It didn’t ring anymore, just sighed when I picked it up. “Forgot your song?” I asked. The Graveyard didn’t answer, but the wind did—a soft push, like a nod.

I cleaned the bell with a scrap of bright cloth and tied it to the old gate. When the breeze blew through, it chimed once—low and wobbly, but proud. The sound carried across the stones like a memory waking up.

By nightfall, every candle flame swayed to its rhythm. The bell rang again, stronger this time. The Graveyard wasn’t quiet anymore—it was listening.

Some songs don’t need drums or trumpets. They just need someone to remember the tune.

The Graveyard is quiet again, but not empty. Wax pools around candle stubs, and the air smells like sugar and smoke. I tap my drum once—soft, slow—so the night knows I’m saying thanks.

The marigolds tilt toward the dawn, their petals sleepy from dancing all week. I whisper, “Rest, amigos. You earned it.” Their color lingers on my fingers like paint that refuses to fade.

I stack the dishes, fold the bright cloths, and laugh when the wind steals one ribbon just to play. Gratitude isn’t about endings; it’s about light that stays. Every glow that remains reminds us who we celebrated for—and why we’ll do it again.

I hum as I walk home, the last candle flickering behind me. Still burning, still thankful.

The stones are listening. I can tell by how the candles—unlit—stand a little taller when I pass. Not yet, velitas, not yet. First, the camino. I pinch marigold petals and let them fall in bright rivers that show our loved ones the way. Gate to heart. Heart to gate. Bridges made of color.

I smooth flat river rocks and practice small calavera smiles: a swirl of fuchsia on one cheek, a teardrop of teal on the other, a golden flower at the brow. Names will come later, cuando llegue la noche, when memory feels warm enough to speak out loud. For now, I hum the rhythm so my hands don’t forget.

I stir a pot of sweet fruit with a cinnamon stick and promise the wind a taste if it carries the music kindly. Deal struck. Even the bones in the ground seem to sway when the melody finds its feet. Día de los Muertos isn’t about fright; it’s about abrazo—telling the stories so clearly that joy can dance with grief without stepping on toes.

Soon I’ll light the candles. Soon the petals will glow like sunrise fallen to earth. But this is the before, and the before matters. I check wicks, straighten ribbons, whisper gracias to the names I know by heart. The moon peeks over the wall and nods. “Pronto,” she says. I nod back. “Pronto.”

The Graveyard isn’t spooky to me—it’s busy! The air hums with stories that just forgot the words. I bring my little drum and let the beat fill the cracks between headstones. Thump-ta-ta-thump! The marigolds start swaying right on cue.

I hear laughter hiding under the soil, old and sweet. So I tap faster, and the candles along the path lean in to listen. Their flames wiggle like they’re clapping. Every note I play feels like a memory stretching its arms.

People think the Graveyard sleeps, but really it dances slow. You just have to play the right rhythm to wake it kindly. When I stop, the music keeps echoing—a soft heartbeat under the stones. That’s the sound of remembering with joy instead of fear.

I pack my drum and whisper, “Gracias.” The night smells like sugar and smoke and home.