Is this how you felt when Eurydice died, Orpheus? It must be—you kept expecting her to move or breathe any second, and I look at your still body and expect the same. You are peaceful in death, the ghost of a smile still on your face, and if I try I can almost imagine you singing. I see them close your eyes and place your hands over your chest, the classic pose of the newly dead, and yet it doesn't feel real. I cherished your every embrace like a drowning man gripping a plank of wood in a maelstrom, savored every kiss like I might never feel your lips against mine again. And now I know I never will.

I'm sorry, Orpheus, for not understanding how you felt when Eurydice died; I understand now. At the time I was jealous not only of your wild dreams of Persephone, but of Eurydice—I admitted as much, though I'm unsure you heard—and after her death, I supposed that you would be able to move on. You could sing your pain out like your joy, and in time you would find your strength again. I believed you when you said no woman could replace her, but no man could replace me. I even wondered for an instant if I might be enough for you.

But I wasn't; I never was. You, Orpheus, needed and wanted us both. You were keen to share your love with us, as you did with the world that loved you back. You sang of being unable to choose between Eurydice and Calais (yes, I read between the lines) and decided not to choose at all, taking both our hearts for your own. I may not have liked the song, but I knew its meaning intimately, for it was the life we led. She was your wife and I your lover, and we were content in your shared dream. Until we weren't—until you weren't.

That dream you had of Charon and Hades and Persephone was the beginning of the end. For so long we'd all lived in the present moment, enjoying ourselves without care for the future or past, just like in your celebratory songs. When you first looked back it alarmed me, seeing you drifting through life like you were half-dead yourself. When Eurydice died and you became obsessed with chasing ghosts, I thought you were spiraling into madness. Now, as I stare at your lifeless body, seeing you happy in death, I start to wonder if it wasn't a dream after all.

I know in my mind that it's not rational, that the car melting through the parking garage wall into an underworld metro can't exist in reality. But a mere dream couldn't have shattered everything so cleanly and so soon. Maybe there were underlying issues we were too in love to see or address; maybe if Aristaeus and I had given you more leeway, let you sing for yourself as well as the crowd of fans, it wouldn't have turned out this way. But maybe it would have anyway.

You asked us once what becomes of an artist and his work after he dies. I don't know the answer to that; some say dead artists are better, their work preserved for eternity, while others lament the loss of anything new. Some fade into mist like they'd never been, but I hope, I pray, that it won't happen to you, Orpheus. Not you. You deserved the world that didn't deserve you back; you said you loved me like life itself, and you were my life. Now that you're gone, I don't know who I am or what I'll do. I guess this is another thing we have in common now, since you felt the same about Eurydice.

Orpheus, I hope you are happy now, wherever you are. I hope you are with Eurydice again, and with any luck, I hope it won't be too long before we can all meet up again, even if it's in an afterlife of endless tedium. I hope once you're settled in you can show them the songs that made you a living legend. Maybe they'll find your music gives them new life, or maybe they'll tear you to pieces—I don't know what the dead think, but at least once you're there you can't die again and leave your loved ones behind.

I feel I understand now where Dominique Daniel came from, if not her actions; love and hatred are fired by the same passions, and jealousy runs on both. We did as much as we could together, you and I, but now that it's ended it feels like it wasn't enough. Maybe it would never have been, but the foolish part of me wishes we'd all have grown old together. Maybe then this fire inside me would have faded to embers, and we would have been content.

But there's no use dwelling on the past that was or futures that could have been. You sang of living in the moment, Orpheus, to try and enjoy life while you can, and while this hurts more than anything I've ever felt, I will try to honor your wishes. It's the least I can do for you, my love, my star, my life.

…I wish I could stop thinking about you and Eurydice, but the selfish, jealous part of me wants an answer you can't give.

If it were me that died, Orpheus—your lover Calais, not your wife Eurydice—would you weep over my body as you did hers? Would you have chased your ghosts of underworld dreams to save me? Would you expend everything, your health, your sanity, to bring me back from the grave? I'd like to think you would, but maybe that's too much to hope for. You loved her more than anything, more than life itself. And if I was your life, and you loved me as you did life, that tells me you loved her just a bit more.

I freely admit it; I was jealous, and still am. But I will try not to be, for your sake if not hers. As I watch them cart your body away, the ghost of a smile on your lips catches my eye, and I try to smile back.

I hope you're happy with Eurydice, and that you got what you truly wanted.

If nothing else, Orpheus, you deserve that.

…At least, I think you do.