Chapter Text
The kitchen was quieter than he expected.
Muted, even—with the celebration still going strong somewhere beyond the walls. Laughter echoed faintly through the corridors, dulled by thick adobe and candlelight. Here, it was all steam and soft clatter. The slow rhythm of a house breathing beneath the noise.
Samuel stepped in cautiously, shoulders drawn in.
The scent of roasted peppers and sweet corn clung to the air, warm and nostalgic in a way that caught him off guard. It smelled like home—not his , exactly, but someone’s. A place with memory soaked into the woodgrain and corners.
The light was low and golden, flickering gently across stone counters and woven baskets. A pot on the stove gave off quiet heat, left simmering. Bowls lined the table, half-filled with dough, spices, shredded meat. The kind of half-prep that said: someone was just here, but left in a hurry.
Mirabel was alone at the far end, tying off a cloth-wrapped bundle of leftovers.
She looked up when he entered.
“You found it,” she said simply, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Good.”
“I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to,” Samuel admitted, stepping in like someone who wasn’t entirely sure the floor would hold him.
“You are,” she said. No hesitation. “I told Casita to open for you.”
He nodded. Didn’t quite meet her eyes.
As he moved further in, wandering past the pantry where Mirabel was digging and into the connecting arch of the dining room, the air seemed to shift—like stepping into a photograph too perfect to belong to him.
The room was warm with candlelight and memory. Soft shadows danced across the long, polished table. Every chair was tucked in with care. A centerpiece of fresh flowers sat like a crown at the center, surrounded by place settings that felt lived in , not staged. Familiar. Family.
Samual paused at the threshold, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.
His fingers twitched—a faint, familiar motion. He signed low, barely lifting his hands: Don’t touch. Just look.
A self-directed whisper. The kind of rule children were told in places that weren’t theirs.
His fingers ghosted over the edge of the table as he passed, the surface worn smooth by use. There was something holy about it—something soft. He didn’t know where to put his hands, so he folded them close to his chest.
On the wall by the head of the table, a mural bloomed into view—delicate and bright, the Madrigal family tree painted with loving precision. Names and flowers. Faces in miniature. Roots and branches stretching in carefully tended spirals.
Bruno’s portrait was there. Tucked between his sisters. Smiling, even. Like he’d never left.
Samual’s eyes dropped to the table.
Each setting was unique—hand-painted dinner plates nestled at every spot, personalized with symbols and colors. A sunflower here. A lightning bolt there. The polished, permanent kind. As if every seat knew exactly who it was waiting for.
But there wasn’t one for him.
No blank spot. No untouched setting. No quiet acknowledgment of a place that could be filled.
Just fullness. Just completion.
His hands moved again—small, almost involuntary.
He’s not here.
A sign barely visible in the golden light. Not meant to be seen. Not even meant to be said.
And no room for the man still living behind the walls.
The ache rose in his chest like a tide. Slow, inevitable. Not bitter—but deeply, devastatingly aware.
And somehow, that made it harder to be in.
Mirabel moved with care, almost reverence. She tiptoed like she was avoiding waking a sleeping housecat, then ducked down to rummage behind one of the ceramic canisters near the stove. The faint clink of lids and glass jars filled the space between them.
Samuel leaned against the edge of the counter, the cool tile grounding against his palms. The ache hadn’t left, but it shifted—dulled slightly by the soft, domestic rhythm of the room. By the simple, wordless way Mirabel gave him space to breathe without asking for anything in return.
There was something about that—about being in the quiet with someone—that almost hurt more than being alone.
“You ever notice how La Casita makes everything look like a storybook?” he asked quietly, watching the kitchen breathe around them. “Even the mess?”
Mirabel grinned over her shoulder. “She’s a bit of a show-off.”
La Casita gave a soft creak of offense from somewhere in the rafters.
“Okay, okay—‘theatrical.’ Better?”
The shelves near them shifted just slightly, like a shrug.
Samuel let out a soft breath, almost a laugh. The ache in his chest didn’t disappear, but it loosened. His gaze drifted back to Mirabel—her brows furrowed in concentration as she rooted through jars and bundles, sleeves dusted with flour. There was something disarmingly steady about her. Present without pressing. Light without being loud.
She didn’t ask what had pulled him into the kitchen, didn’t comment on the way he’d lingered too long in front of the mural. Just kept moving through the space like it was hers , and made room for him in it without question.
It helped. More than he expected.
Mirabel finally surfaced, triumphantly holding two arepas wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Victory.”
She handed one over, and they ate in comfortable silence, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the wide kitchen island. It was the most food Samuel had eaten all day, but it still went down slow—his stomach fluttery with all the held-in feelings he hadn’t quite managed to name.
After a while, Mirabel asked, “You ever been to one of these before? Gift ceremonies?”
Samuel shook his head. “No. I wasn’t here for the last one. I don’t even think I knew Encanto existed yet.”
Mirabel whistled low. “Then you missed the best and weirdest party of your life.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Weird sounds about right.”
They lapsed quiet again. Somewhere in the plaza, music swelled—something bright and percussive, all family voices and chorus laughter.
Samuel looked at the napkin in his hands. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to come.”
Mirabel’s gaze softened. “Supposed to?”
He nodded. “Everyone knows each other. Everyone’s someone. And I’m just… not.”
Mirabel reached over and nudged him with her elbow, not hard, just enough to be felt. “You are. You’re just new. That still counts.”
“Does it?”
Her brows lifted, and her voice turned mock serious. “It does if I say so.”
Samuel’s laugh came out half-surprised, half-wet. He blinked quickly, looking away.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low. “I mean it.”
She didn’t press. Just nodded and let them sit there a while longer.
And in the warmth of the kitchen, the hum of voices outside softened, blurred by walls and candlelight. It wasn’t the forest. It wasn’t the quiet safety of an old hiding place, or the feeling of someone who made him feel like home.
But this—this was something.