Night Watch
The ones you don't wrangle. Every night in the graveyard has its cast beyond the muertos — a villain, a keeper, a critic on the fence. Know them before they know you.
The show called her El Olvido. The town kept the name. Nobody's found a better one — a hooded violet nothing with two pale eyes, circling out past your candlelight, patient as weather.
Under the graveyard runs a colonnaded hall of sarcophagi, and at its far end waits the crew's reliquary, where the Arcs of the dead are laid — and a boon, for anyone bold enough to claim it. The Guardian is the reason 'anyone' is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
On the back fence, every night, sits an owl. It does not help. It does not hinder. It watches you work with enormous amber eyes, and every so often it blinks — slowly, deliberately, like a supervisor initialing a form.
The lamp-and-sign shop on the plaza's north corner is Old Snast's, and so is every hour of it. He fixes what you bring him and tells you what it was — usually more than you asked. He doesn't sell. Ask for a price and you'll get the long look over the spectacles.