The first time Orpheus turns and watches as Hermes drags Eurydice back down below, pure despair finds him. It feeds on him, raw and unyielding, and any songs of hope are replaced with a single word and question: Why? Why did he turn right at the aperture to the overworld; why was his doubt so piercing? Why did he even try to save Eurydice at all?
Persephone has no answers to his questions, but she comforts him as best she can. It's not your fault, she says; you were only playing the part the Fates wrote for you. At that his sorrow turns bitter, and Orpheus curses the Fates for playing with their lives, curses himself for gambling with Hades so wantonly, curses the world they live in for being broken beyond repair.
Even in his deepest sorrow and rage, Orpheus would never blame Eurydice, and when he has no anger left in him he weeps. He lets Persephone embrace him and gently stroke his hair like a mother would, like the mother he never knew. Orpheus finally settles into a restless, fitful sleep, and wakes in the morning to find Persephone gone. She's gone down below to be with her husband, with the man who took everything from him, and part of Orpheus wishes she'd dragged him down with her. He's tempted to stay here and drown his sorrows until he can't feel anymore.
But a larger part of him knows he can't stay, not with the wind picking up again, and so he takes up his lyre and leaves the old bar behind. Orpheus wanders the desolated world with no destination in mind, searching the endless horizons for a melody that's as lost to him as Eurydice. The fire pits glow in the night beyond the railroad tracks, illuminating the way to food and shelter, but Orpheus pays them little heed. His time in Hadestown has eroded his physical needs, and if it were possible, he'd walk the long way to the underground city once more to see Eurydice again.
But as much as he wishes it were possible, he knows it's not. Mortal men can only enter Hadestown once and never again, and if he tried to bend the rules, Hades' guard Cerberus keeps a close eye on the upper world. She'd heard him sing like the rest, committing his being to memory, and Orpheus knows she'd sniff him out and eject him if he got within five feet of the old train. And if she didn't, Hermes would refuse him entry, and if he didn't, Hades himself would.
If by some miracle, Hades let him back in, Orpheus might just start believing in miracles again. But until such time, he strums his lyre, wandering the world alone, singing songs of love, loss, and everything in between.
He doesn't know how many years have passed, but as he walks the dusty roads, the endless railroad tracks, music begins to follow him. At first it is soft and subtle, drumbeats matching his heart and the imprint of his shoes in the dirt. Over time it grows more complex, more melodious. Jaunty trombones and a thundering piano reach Orpheus's ears, and a cello, a bass guitar, and a lyre much like his own follow them. If he listens hard, but not too hard, he can even hear what sounds like the accordion Hades himself had played in his city of steel and fire so long ago.
The music is beautiful, but something is missing, Orpheus can tell. He hasn't played in a while, but as he takes up his lyre, hands gently moving across the weathered strings, he knows the missing piece is his own music. And as he plays, the notes ringing out into open space and deep below the earth, Orpheus hears voices on the wind.
He can scarcely believe his ears at first, but the more he listens, the more he knows it to be true—Eurydice, her voice entwined with Persephone, hoping their song finds him and follows him to bring him comfort, wherever he may be wandering.
For the first time since he turned around, Orpheus smiles.
He is still smiling as the Fates snip his thread at last, sending the story spinning back to its start.
When the mists of time cease rolling back, Orpheus blinks as Eurydice lies across from him in a field of flowers, face upturned to catch the breeze and warm sunlight.
The sky is gorgeous with nary a cloud in sight, and the fruit on the trees is ripe—it's perfect weather to discuss their wedding plans, she teases.
As he grins and brings his lyre closer, ready to provide for Eurydice in the ways only a musician can, Orpheus stills slightly before responding.
From somewhere—he's not sure where—the faint sound of music, not his own, reaches his ears.
Orpheus can't put a name to it, and in seconds it's gone.
It comforts him all the same.
The majority of this story is based on the Vermont version of Hadestown, specifically 2007, which had an alternate ending song of Orpheus lamenting his grief, plus Cerberus the guard and a heavy post-apocalyptic feel. The ending song later became I Raise My Cup To Him/We Raise Our Cups, which was first featured in the 2010 concept album and is when the last era of the story takes place.