Eurydice isn't sure where the red carnation came from—it appeared in her coat pocket almost like magic—but something inside tells her to hold onto it and keep it safe at all costs. Her travels have brought her to a dusty railroad town, and she instinctively reaches for the flower, smiling when she can feel it secure in the folds of her coat.

Eurydice takes it out to study it, as she often does these days, and it looks and smells more vibrant than ever the further she explores the town. When she sees a nearby bar, the flower in her hands seems to dance, and she stares at it in silent wonder before putting it away.

Looking at the carnation has always made her feel alive, and as soon as she enters the homey bar, Eurydice feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. Here is a place to rest her tired feet for a while; here is a place for a warm meal and a soothing drink. Here is a place where, for the first time since she can recall, spring has come again.

Maybe that's why she has the carnation, she thinks. The goddess Persephone's return, on time for the first time in ages, had brought flowers blooming from all over. The fact that one ended up in her pocket, of all places, must be a blessing. It makes her smile as she asks for a match, and the proprietor gives her one.

"Straight from Hermes himself to you," the old man says, and with a startled glance at the double-headed microphone with the emblem of a caduceus, not to mention the speed at which he handles orders, Eurydice knows this man isn't just named after Hermes—he is Hermes. She stammers out a greeting, then an order, and he complies with speed befitting his epithets.

Hermes meets Eurydice's eyes and smiles as he hands her a drink, then heads over to talk to who Eurydice thinks is another patron at first, a woman dressed in green. But the ever-present smell of flowers and her powerful aura give Eurydice a clue as to whom she is, and her guess is confirmed when the woman reaches into an empty basket and produces a blooming bouquet of springtime flowers from nothing. Eurydice gasps in the presence of Persephone herself, come to share her bounty of spring with the gods as well as the men.

She sees them glance in her direction as she lights her frail candle and warms her chilly fingers, mouths moving quietly but purposefully, and Eurydice realizes with a jolt that they're talking about her. She can't hear what they're saying, and she's a bit afraid to ask—Hermes nods at one point and shakes his head at another, and Persephone stands to envelop him in a comforting embrace. When the goddess lets go, Eurydice can see both their eyes are wet with tears.

Persephone turns away with a bright, almost too-wide smile as she engages other patrons in small talk, but Hermes stands still and watches the crowd, his gaze never leaving a door leading to a back room in the bar. As Eurydice sips her drink, she studies his weathered face, wondering who or what he's looking for. Hermes shakes his head and looks away, head kept low, and she can sense a tired defeat in his frame.

But what she focuses most on are his eyes.

There's pain in the messenger god's eyes, Eurydice thinks, an unspoken but ever-present sorrow. It's like the weight of the sky itself rests on Hermes' shoulders when it was never meant to. Eurydice has no words for that kind of pain, but recognizes it intimately all the same—like her troubled past and uncertain future, Hermes certainly has troubles of his own, and she can feel the weight pressing on him and threatening to make him buckle.

But there's hope, too, in those eyes, and hope is something Eurydice knows must be kept safe. On instinct, she reaches into her pocket and retrieves her treasured flower, the red carnation's petals thriving in Persephone's presence. Its smell is vivid and lively, and just looking at it fills her with a sense of comfort.

If anyone needs comfort right now, it's Hermes, and Eurydice knows unconsciously that the flower in her hands can help.

"Here—sir," she begins awkwardly, standing and holding it out to Hermes. "You look like…like you might need this."

Hermes looks at her, and then the flower, like he's seen a ghost. Her words seem to catch him off-guard, but then he blinks and looks at her. "Thank you," he says, taking the carnation tenderly and breathing in its scent. "Smells like spring," he finally says, giving it back just as gently.

Then he looks her head-on, and his stare is both gentle and piercing.

"Girl, tell me something, and tell it straight—do you think it'll turn out, this time?"

Eurydice doesn't know what the messenger god means, but as the door in the back opens and she sees the bartender for the first time—but not the first time at all—she feels she understands the question intimately. She feels, too, that she knows the answer just as deeply.

"I think it just might," Eurydice says, and when Orpheus introduces himself, passion and soul-deep love in his voice and Persephone giving a knowing smile in the background, she raises the carnation and meets Hermes' eyes.

They are sparkling with hope, and soon hers are too.