The graveyard is completely silent, and a thin fog hovers just off the ground, making the tombstones look like they’re floating in clouds.

Fina thinks for a moment. “Well, yeah, but that’s not exactly the same as ghosts. Like, I’ve never seen a spirit. But there was this chair in their house where Abuelito always sat. A rocking chair. And one Día de Los Muertos, I swear it started rocking all on its own.”

“Spooky,” I say, weaving through the stones toward Gram. Suddenly, my heart is beating fast.

“Not really,” Fina replies. “If there was a spirit, it was just Abuelito.”

I point to Gram and Grandpa’s stone. “This is where my grandparents are buried.”

“Hi, Emma’s grandparents,” Fina says, giving a little wave.

“Is it okay if we stay here for a minute?” I ask.

“Sure.” We both sit down, our knees disappearing into the fog.

“So, what was your gram like?” Fina asks, drawing her arms around her knees.

“Well,” I say, not knowing where to start, “she was a really good grandmother. More than a grandmother, really. I always used to stay with her on the weekends, and she made the best apple pie. She was a painter, and I would sit with her while she painted and she would tell me fairy tales. She’s the one who got me to read The World at the End of the Tunnel, too. I think she’s the reason I love books so much.”

“Same with me and Abuelito!” Fina says. “Every time we went to visit, he would be sitting there in his rocking chair when we came in, and he would have a new book for me. Abuelita would go get me some food, and I would climb up onto his lap and he would start reading.”

We go back and forth for a long time, trading stories about Gram and Abuelito.

I tell Fina about how Gram always carried a parasol and wore these long flowy dresses and how that made kids in the village think she was a witch but she didn’t mind.

Fina tells me about how her grandfather fought in the Vietnam War and lost one of his legs there and how sometimes he swore he could still feel it. He said it felt like it was dancing, and then he would have to get up and dance, whirling her grandmother around the kitchen until they were both exhausted.

When the church bells begin to chime, both of us jump.

Fina looks at me. “Midnight,” she whispers. “The time that spirits come back.”

We listen to each ring, counting. My stomach begins to flutter.

Six, seven, eight . . .

I find myself staring at Gram’s stone. I meant to take Fina to the old part of the graveyard, which is much spookier than this part. But instead I brought her here.

Nine, ten . . .