When Eurydice clutches him tight and says she's been alone and fending for herself as long as she can remember, even in his sleep-induced haze, Orpheus nods in understanding. He knows because he's felt that ache, that loneliness, for most of his life, covering it with charm and smiles and song the same way she did with wit and defensiveness. They are two sides of the same coin, he and Eurydice, and as she continues to weave a picture of her past that contrasts with her present—the two of them laying side by side in the summer heat and green fields—Orpheus lets himself reflect on his own beginnings as he listens.

His first memories are hazy and indistinct, but he remembers the warmth and laughter of his older sisters. Aglaia could light up a room with her kind smile, while Euphrosyne could find the silver lining in every cloud, no matter how dark. The oldest sister, Thalia, kept them together with her patience and knack for gardening, with flowers being her strongest suit. The town called them the Graces for their kindness to others, and it was rare to see them apart from one another. They nurtured the young Orpheus, indulged his musical habits and helped him find food when it was scarce, and if anyone ever teased him about his untamable curly hair or the faraway, dreamy look in his eyes, Orpheus knew his sisters had his back.

Orpheus remembers the last major party they had, all those years ago, when his sisters proudly presented him with a lyre to call his own. It was said to be Apollo's design, and the joy he'd felt on holding it, playing it, was almost enough for him to dismiss the thought that there was nowhere near enough food to go around, just as little water, and no money left to pay rent.

But the Graces saw the empty cupboards and emptier pockets all too well, and between that and the increasingly harsh winters, they knew there was only one place to go that might hold the promise of a future. Aglaia kissed Orpheus goodbye and Euphrosyne managed to tickle a smile out of him, and Thalia promised that, come next spring, they'd be back from Hadestown with enough money and food for the entire town.

When they didn't return, something inside Orpheus broke.

Left to fend off starvation alone and thrown into a world that seemed made for people like Hades, not him, the musician wandered aimlessly. What had been a tool of recreation now became one of survival as Orpheus strummed his prized lyre for food and the chance to sleep in a warm bed for the night. Not everyone was forthcoming, but he still managed to make acquaintances—the roving vagabond Hermes met him with a warm smile and cheap whiskey, and always had a tale to tell. Lady Persephone was an even more welcome sight, bringing spring and summer and a harvest that ensured Orpheus wouldn't go hungry for several months.

In return for their kindness, he played his lyre and sang songs of love and loss, and it was enough to get him through those first, difficult years. With advice from Hermes Orpheus soon mastered riding the rails, stopping when orchards were in view, and his campfire-making skills grew exponentially. But the loss of the Graces still ached in his heart, a pain that refused to settle. And one year, when Hades came a few days early to pick up his wife, Orpheus scowled at the god's back and decided he was going to see Hadestown for himself. Orpheus remembered Hermes' tales of the train and its destination; those who went never came back, but for his own peace of mind, he had to try.

He doesn't remember much of what happened after he snuck onboard the train, and even less of when he got a glimpse of Hadestown proper. It was only a short window of time before the guards caught him; when they heard his story they threw the mortal boy out with a warning for trespassing, and Orpheus knew he was lucky to be let off easy. Anything concrete about the visit in his mind seemed to slip away like falling sand, and even now, he only gets wisps of his peek into the world of the dead.

But he remembers the feelings there like he'd never left—poverty, misery, and endless work, millions of shades toiling for purposes unknown to anyone but Hades. If his sisters were somewhere in that teeming mass, there'd be no way to find them, and even less of a chance of them coming home. As far as Orpheus knew, they were dead—to the world above and down below.

It wasn't long after that that his songs began to change, the vague but persistent impressions of Hadestown and its boss sharpening into a call to make the world above a better place. If there was no need to go to Hadestown, Orpheus thought, no one would ever be hurt like he was again, and he sang of the bonds of community, of sharing what they had so no one was left out, as much as he sang of the gods.

It didn't work—the world was too harsh for that—but it didn't stop him trying, striving for the world he dreamed about to be the one he lived in now.

And now, with Eurydice tangled in his arms and love overwhelming all other sensations, Orpheus thinks they just might have found the world they were looking for. If she'll stay with him—and she promises she will, and he chooses to believe her—he can see nothing but sunny days on the horizons, filled with light and laughter. When she asks for his steady hand, for winds that will never change, he promises they never will.

Hadestown is the furthest thing from his mind as they share the hot summer nights and days together, at least until the train whistle blows a full month early.

When Persephone complains her husband is here too soon, and Eurydice's eyes grow wide at the Fates' tales of life down below, Hadestown is all Orpheus can see when he closes his eyes. Desperate and angry, he sings to Eurydice of the town's true state—its people are hungry, tired, slaving away for practically nothing—but it's like she can't hear him. Eurydice catches Hades' eye as he leaves, and he holds his gaze, and Orpheus can only do so much to protect her as the old train pulls out.

She's still enchanted by false tales of gold on the streets and ambrosia on every pair of lips, and Orpheus wonders if he and Eurydice, birds of a feather in so many ways, are destined to scatter like petals on the wind. He shakes his head and vows to keep working on his song, keep fighting for the world that is, and could be once more.

In spite of his words and promises, the wind changes. He asks Eurydice for more time, and she grants it as she goes to prepare for winter.

Orpheus knows what Hadestown is like, and he composes frantically, sings just as fast. He sings of the terrible wall built to keep others out and everything in, of the workers obeying Hades' every whim. He sings of the love gone wrong that sent the Underworld spinning out of control to its present state.

A storm howls above them; Eurydice screams his name, and Orpheus does not hear it.

He knows Hades and Persephone can find their way back to each other—gods, he hopes they do—but all he can see in his mind's eye is how miserable the place is, and he hopes, hopes, that Eurydice will listen and stay. He hopes he's good enough; please, let his gifts be enough.

When Orpheus finally looks up from his work, his breath catches.

He's alone.