Mirabel Had To Go

10. Soon

The morning light filtered through the small window of Mirabel’s room, the sound of distant laughter and music pulling her from her dreams. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and climbed down the wooden steps, the faint aroma of arepas and coffee wafting through the air. But as soon as she reached the main hall of the inn, she froze. 

The usually calm and homely atmosphere had been transformed. Brightly colored banners and garlands made of flowers—orchids, heliconias, and bougainvillea—hung from the beams. Tables were adorned with woven cloths in vivid patterns, and baskets of fresh fruit—papayas, mangos, and guavas—were artfully displayed. Maria, the innkeeper’s eldest daughter, stood on a ladder, carefully hanging more banners, her cheerful humming blending with the upbeat vallenato music playing in the background. 

“Buenos días,” Mirabel said hesitantly, stepping closer. “What’s going on?” 

Maria turned her head, a grin spreading across her face. “Ah, buenos días, Mirabel! Tomorrow is the town’s foundation festival. We’re preparing for the big day.” 

“A festival?” Mirabel repeated, her eyes wide. Her mind raced back to Encanto. They had celebrations, of course, but they were always centered on family milestones—door ceremonies, weddings. Nothing like this. “That’s amazing!” 

Just then, Catalina appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of freshly baked pandebonos. “It’s the biggest event of the year,” she chimed in, setting the tray down. “The whole town gathers to celebrate. There’s music, dancing, food—oh, and the fireworks! You’ll love it, Mirabel.” 

Mirabel smiled, though her heart ached a little. This kind of joy, this sense of community celebration, felt foreign yet comforting. She quietly wondered why Encanto had never done something like this. 

After breakfast—a hearty plate of calentado and arepas with hogao—Mirabel made her way to the boutique where she worked. The streets were alive with activity. Vendors set up colorful stalls, selling everything from woven mochilas to wooden flutes and hand-painted ceramics. Children ran by, laughing, their faces smudged with fruit juice from freshly cut mangos on sticks. Mirabel marveled at the decorations—strings of lights crisscrossed the streets, and murals of the town’s history were being painted on walls. 

When she entered the boutique, Mrs. Julia greeted her with her usual warm smile. “Ah, there you are, Mirabel. Just in time!” 

Standing next to Mrs. Julia was a tall, distinguished man. His neatly combed hair and finely tailored clothing gave him an air of authority. Mirabel greeted him politely, her tone tinged with curiosity. 

“Mirabel, this is Don Rafael, the mayor of our town,” Mrs. Julia introduced. 

“Mayor?” Mirabel echoed, unfamiliar with the term. She nodded respectfully, her curiosity piqued. 

“It’s nice to meet you, young lady,” Don Rafael said with a warm smile. 

Mrs. Julia turned to Mirabel. “Could you bring out the ruana we finished yesterday?" 

“Of course,” Mirabel replied, hurrying to the back. She carefully retrieved the ruana, its dark fabric adorned with intricate embroidery of golden flowers and silver accents, she carried it out, her heart pounding slightly as she handed it over. 

Don Rafael traced the embroidery with his fingers, his expression thoughtful. Mirabel held her breath, worried he might not like it. 

“It’s beautiful,” he finally said, his tone appreciative. “My son will love it. You have a real talent.” 

Mirabel’s cheeks flushed with pride, and she managed a shy smile. “Thank you, Señor.” 

Don Rafael handed over the payment, more than the agreed price. Mrs. Julia raised an eyebrow. “Señor, this is too much—”