The smell of marigolds filled the air. Its golden petals gleamed with the sun as they laid in the mossy grass of the pond’s edge. 

This secluded pond, far from the town’s noise, was Maya’s sanctuary.

She sat cross-legged before a makeshift ofrenda—a wooden plank propped up by stones. Melted candles, papel picado, two conchas, and tamarind candies lined the top. At its center: a creased photo. A girl, just shy of two, cradled by an older child.

Micaela.

Maya’s skin prickled. Her eyes burned. To the world, she was the staunch Beta. Disciplined, strong, fierce. But here, she didn’t have to be that. Not on Día de los Muertos.

Twenty years.

Twenty years since she ran.

Twenty years since Micaela died alone.

The first year, Maya ran until her paws bled. The second, she wrote apology after apology. The third, she waited by the North ward—the ward between darkness and the underworld—from dusk until dawn, sure that Micaela would be wandering through there.

But Micaela never came.

This year, the silence felt heavier than ever. The Crimson Moon was approaching. Abuela said it would cause the veil to thin, be more fragile. Spirits have crossed over more frequently.

But not Micaela.

Never Micaela.

 “Why aren’t you here?” Maya whispered. “Please. Just this once. A whisper. A breeze. Something. Anything.”

The wind stirred the candles. No reply.

Micaela cried for hours that night. She’d been sick for months. Maya couldn’t stand it; her gut churned at the thought of the one person she loved would leave her.

“Everyone leaves me,” she yelled. “Everyone always leaves me. No more!”

And so, she ran away.

Maya hadn’t fully mastered her nahual form. The wolf was awkward, scared. She ran until dawn, until her mind emptied.

When she returned, Micaela was gone.

The news shattered her heart. Micaela had died. She died without her big sister by her side.

Some said spirits who died in fear sometimes couldn’t find their way back. Others whispered that not all souls came home. That some were too angry, too hurt, too lost.

But Maya knew the truth. Micaela didn’t come back because Maya abandoned her.

That guilt lingered, an anchor chained to her soul.

Maya placed a bracelet on the altar. A small, woven band, identical to the one on her wrist.

She leaned forward, head bowed. “I know it’s my fault,” she whispered. “Not just that night. Not just the fear, the running away. It was the way I was angry. The I—”

Her throat closed. She forced the words out.

“The way I was angry that you were like them. In the end it was me. I left you. I abandoned you.”

Her hands gripped tight around her chest.

“I was supposed to be there for you. Protect you. Comfort you. I was supposed to be different.”

The marigolds trembled. Faint music drifted from town, where others danced and remembered. Here, at the pond, there was only wind.

No whispers.

No shadow.

No Micaela.

She closed her eyes. “I left you. You were crying. And I left you. When I came back…you were gone.”

The silence pressed in. Heavy and empty.

“Never again.”

“If someone I love is in danger…I won’t run. I won’t let them go. I don’t care what happens to me.”

She thumbed her bracelet.

“Mi Hermana. Mi nena—"

“I promise.”

The candles flames flickered.

But nothing else moved.

Only the wind through the marigolds,

and the quiet breath of a nahual mourning alone.