Worth The Shot

Cold Candlelight

"Don't you dare follow me, Camilo Madrigal! In fact, don't ever talk to me again!" 

Your parting words ricocheted around in your skull like bullets. 

He was being unreasonable, you feebly justified to yourself. I don't want to talk to him. Of course I meant it. A knot tightened in the back of your throat. But what if he never talks to me again? You quickened your pace, sneaking through the night village. 

Maybe I was too hard on him. He probably wasn't thinking straight. 

Of all negative emotions, guilt hurt the most. It lacked the tragic beauty of sadness, the passion of anger, or the romanticism of nostalgia. Guilt tormented you with shame and regret. 

I'll apologize later. He'll forgive me. I hope. Reluctantly, you crowded out thoughts of the boy you'd left behind and focused on the shadowed door in front of you. Your home, which usually elicited a feeling of comfort and safety, menacingly dared you to enter. I'll make him tell me where the Madrigals are. I can save them. 

Your hand lingered on the doorknob. As you braced yourself to enter, a willowy girl tiptoed from the shadows behind you. You suspiciously whirled around. 

"Hey," she easily whispered, stepping forward to brush against your shoulder. "Is Senor Candella not home?" You studied her face, confused by her familiarity. 

"(Y/n)," she nervously laughed, pulling the door open. "You're weirding me out. Let's go inside." 

You startled. She knows my name? You warily stepped inside after the girl. Oh. She must be from the mountain Encanto. She knew the other me.

The very idea of your alternate, past life vaguely unsettled you. You didn't know this girl. Whoever she thinks I am, that's not me anymore.

"Sorry I'm late," the tall girl apologized to someone. You blinked, then audibly gasped when your eyes adjusted to the darkness. People packed the room. Men. Women. Even children, sleepily leaning against their mothers, bundled in blankets and scarves. 

These are the survivors. There are over 50 people in here. Your heart swelled with a sense of pride and protectiveness toward the refugees huddled in the cold darkness. They've all lost so much. 

"Cristina," Your father sternly nodded to the girl, but there was kindness in his eyes. The mountain villagers shifted around your father, respectfully watching his movements as if they radiated sacred judgement.

For a brief moment, you saw the vigilant glint in your father's eyes in a different light. Caring for the ruined people he had sworn to protect. Protecting their safety. But the moment ended, and his cruel treatment of your abuela and his demolition of your memories, your very identity, crashed back in.  

"Father," you barged in, feeling like a brash interrupter to the peaceful, candlelit gathering. "I'm back. I need to know everything." 

You pushed through the crowd to stand beside your father. As you passed, a tangible breath of hope spread through the people. They whispered with awed reverence. 

"Finally, it's her." 

"(Y/n) Candella." 

"Do you really think she can save us?"

An old, hunched lady kindly rested her hand on your arm. "Thank you," she breathed with a grateful smile. "You can save us all." 

You graciously nodded to her, unsure of how to respond. When you reached your father, you quietly asked, "What's going on? Why are these people here?" 

"Tonight is the night we can go back home," your father smiled tearfully. "We've been preparing for this night for three weeks."

"How?" You dumbfoundedly challenged. "Our home is buried under a mountain." 

Your father, unsurprisingly, bent over the table to scribble on a paper. 

If we relight our candle, I believe that the mountain will magically lift into our Encanto. 

"How will you do that?" You wondered aloud, genuinely curious. Hope lifted in your chest. Maybe these people can get their home back. Their families back. A new wish glimmered through your mind. Maybe I can meet my brother. 

Your father hesitated, watching your eyes. Deciding to trust you, he wrote,

We can light its stump with the eternal flame of an active miracle candle. 

"Do you have one?" You questioned, then immediately felt stupid as his plan dawned on you. "Wait. No! You would do that? You'd steal-" 

Your father urgently gestured for you to stop talking, pressing the candle stump into your palm.

Yes. We need to get the Madrigal's miracle candle. And we need you to take it for us.