Orpheus never fully returned to the land of the living. After that fatal backward glance, as Eurydice disappeared into the darkness, he fell to the ground, crying her name until his voice gave out. When Hermes finally managed to drag him back to the shelter of the bar, Orpheus shut himself away in the tiny apartment upstairs. For days afterward he would not eat or drink, barely slept, and did not speak to anyone. He never touched his lyre, and would not sing a single note. His heart remained in Hadestown, and his soul seemed to resent the persistent needs of the body that remained stubbornly alive, keeping him bound to the mortal world.

It was his burden to bear, as heavy as Sisyphus' boulder and as unwanted now as Midas' touch of gold. But unlike the eternal punishments some were given, Orpheus knew that one day his struggle would have an end. Sooner or later, everyone would board the train to Hadestown, and in the end, he would join Eurydice there. He found some comfort in that.

When the grass emerged from under the melting snow, green after so long, and the first tentative songs of birds cut through morning air, settling in branches that were just beginning to put forth pale green buds, Hermes watched Orpheus shoulder his lyre, and set off down the road away from the train station. The bar was too full of memories. The nearby fields where he and Eurydice had gathered summer flowers, danced in the twilight, and lain side by side gazing at the stars, now only served to remind him of her absence. And the train whistle mocked him every time it came echoing down the tracks.

Hermes made no move to stop him: he simply stood at the door of the bar, and watched until the boy was out of sight. He was glad to see Orpheus moving on, if not embracing life, at least resigned to endure it for the time being. Perhaps, in time, the boy who brought the world back into tune might find harmony and rhythm once more in the birds' songs, the hum of insects, and the rustle of wind in a canopy of leaves.

Persephone missed her favorite poet, though she could not fault him for leaving. Her summer revels were more subdued that year, and instead of Orpheus offering a toast to her, she raised her cup to him, with a wish that he might find comfort.

Summer faded into a glorious autumn. Crimson and flame-colored leaves danced in golden sunlight, and the fields yielded a more abundant harvest than any in recent memory. When Hades came to escort Persephone back to Hadestown, his presence did not seem to chill the air as keenly as people remembered. Though the cold came fast enough, and storms soon blew away the last leaves clinging to the trees, the winter seemed milder than the year before. The memory of last year's spring gave hope to those left to weather the storms, and their hopes were not disappointed when the snow finally cleared.

The seasons continued to change, and though the bar patrons would still come in from time to time cursing the cold, or the heat, they would usually end by reminding one another how few days there were left to endure before the weather turned. Hermes often looked down the road for a lanky silhouette with a lyre slung over his shoulder, which never came in sight. Other young musicians filled the bar with their songs. Some of them were not half bad; a few were even good enough to earn Hermes' approval, but none could take Orpheus' place. There would never be another quite like him.

The winters began to drag on, cold and snow lingering through the first months of spring. The mortals grumbled, but Hermes smiled, knowing from his most recent trips to the Underground that Hades no longer forced Persephone to stay beyond her allotted time: she now tarried out of her own reluctance to leave him. She would make it up to her friends up on top soon enough.

One morning, when he came out to sweep away the snow that had fallen during the night, he saw a lone figure sitting on the steps of the station platform. Hermes would hardly have recognized him, were it not for the tattered red bandana knotted at the back of his neck, and the lyre slung over his shoulder. "Orpheus?" he called out.

There was no response. Hermes approached and crouched down beside the poet. The once-white shirt was worn so thin, Hermes could see the knobs of his spine jutting out all the way down his back. He was hunched over so that his head almost touched his knees, but Hermes could still see sunken cheeks, shadowed with uneven stubble. Hermes put his hand on Orpheus' shoulder. "Orpheus," he said again. When that still failed to produce a response, Hermes shook him gently. "Orpheus," he repeated. "Look up."

Orpheus raised his head slowly. Dark circles ringed his unfocused eyes. "Mr. Hermes?" he croaked, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

Hermes smiled at the familiar greeting. "That's me," he said. "It's good to have you back."

Orpheus opened his mouth as though he were going to speak, but he quickly turned his head away from Hermes, as a harsh coughing fit overtook him. Hermes took off his silver-gray jacket and draped over the boy's shoulders. "You don't sound too good," he said. "Come on in from the cold."

Hermes eased Orpheus' arm over his own shoulder, and lifted him to his feet, noting with displeasure that despite being taller than Hermes, the boy weighed far less than he ought to. Hermes dragged Orpheus inside and lowered him into a chair before bustling off to make some mulled wine. When he returned with a steaming cup in either hand, Orpheus was slumped over the table, head resting on top of folded arms. Hermes set one of the cups down in front of him with a purposefully loud clunk. Orpheus raised his head, but not as quickly as Hermes expected. "Drink up, poet," said Hermes. Orpheus grasped the cup with both hands and pulled it toward him, letting the warm steam curl around his face, breathing in the scent of citrus and cinnamon. Hermes sat down across the table from Orpheus, and waited until the boy had drunk a few good sips before he spoke.

"You've been missed around here," he said. "The band tried out a few different singers: they've had some good ones, but I've yet to hear another song that could bring the world back into tune."

Orpheus took another sip of his wine, wincing as he swallowed it down. "I haven't done much singing in a while," he said.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" Hermes asked.

"Traveling," said Orpheus. "Any way the wind…" He trailed off, staring glumly at the tabletop.

"Where did you go?" asked Hermes.

"Wherever the road would take me," said Orpheus. "Forests. Mountains. Deserts. I went as far as Egypt."

"Ah, Egypt!" said Hermes. "How is my old friend the Sphinx? Still guarding the pyramids?" asked Hermes.

"I guess so," said Orpheus. "They're still there."

"What did you do after you'd seen the great sights of Egypt?" Hermes asked.

"Set sail," said Orpheus. "On the Black Sea."

"Ah, yes, with the Argonauts," said Hermes. "I've heard reports of their adventures. It sounds as though you and your lyre saved the day on more than one occasion."

Before Orpheus could make any reply, he began to cough again. Hermes waited for the fit to pass before speaking again. "How long have you had that cough?" he asked.

Orpheus shrugged. "I don't remember," he said.

"Long enough that you've forgotten," said Hermes.

Orpheus nodded. Hermes stood, walked around the table, and placed a hand on Orpheus' shoulder. "A'ight," he said. "Let's get you to bed. Your old room upstairs is still open."

Orpheus dug a small pouch out of his pocket, and let it fall to the table with a heavy clink.

"What's this?" asked Hermes.

"My earnings," said Orpheus. "It's everything I've been able to save up."

"The Argonauts don't pay as well as I would've thought," Hermes remarked.

Orpheus looked up at him. "Is it enough, Mr. Hermes?" he asked.

Hermes raised an eyebrow. "For what?" he asked. "Drinks are on me, brother. And that room is yours any time you need a place to stay. You know that by now."

Orpheus shook his head. "I know," he said. "That's not what I meant."

"Enough for what, then?" Hermes asked.

"For my ticket," said Orpheus. "For the train."

Hermes sighed. "It's not up to me," he said.

"Please, Mr. Hermes," Orpheus begged. "I need to know. If it's not enough, I'll keep working, but I don't know how much longer I can––" He started to cough once more.

Hermes ran his hand back and forth across the poet's back. "Shh, Orpheus," he said. "Don't think of that right now. Get some rest."

When Hermes first took up residence at the station, he had not quite known what to do with the apartment over the bar. Being a god, he did not require rest the way mortals did. But he did occasionally feel the need for peace and solitude, more so as he grew older, and was glad to have some place to retreat to at such times. Over the years, he had occasionally rented out the rooms to travelers. Orpheus and his mother had boarded there when the boy was small, and when she left on a world tour from which she never returned, Hermes was not about to turn a child out of the only home he had ever known. Eurydice eventually had come to share that home––temporarily, Orpheus insisted, as they dreamed of building a life together in a home of their own. Hermes had watched that dream unravel as Eurydice spent her days scavenging for food and supplies, while Orpheus shut himself away with his notebook and his lyre. He wondered what kind of memories seeing the place again after all this time would stir up for the young poet.

But Orpheus was too tired now to reminisce. He let Hermes guide him to the bed, and had hardly set down his lyre before he collapsed onto the sagging mattress. Hermes pulled off the shoes that were nearly worn through at the soles, and covered Orpheus with a threadbare quilt. "Just rest for now, brother," he said. "It's good to have you home."

There were no doctors in the little town that had sprung up around the train station. Plagues had taken the last of them years before, as they spent their strength caring for the sick, until they joined their numbers, and made their way down to Hadestown, where their skills would not be needed (although Hades found plenty of other work for them to do). Nowadays, those unfortunate enough to fall sick had to fight through it on their own. Most wound up boarding the train before long.

Orpheus had managed to avoid any serious illness while he was under Hermes' protection, whether that was due to the gods' blessing, his guardian's vigilance, or sheer luck. Whatever the reason, Hermes hoped it would be enough for Orpheus to pull through this time, but the nagging voices in the back of his mind kept telling him this was not the sort of malady that could be cured with a hot drink and a few days' rest.

Hermes did not announce to anyone that Orpheus had returned. But everybody knows that walls have ears. By the following day, the bar was abuzz with the news, and Hermes found himself fielding questions right and left. Yes, it was true Orpheus was back in town. Yes, that Orpheus. No, he would not be performing. No, he would not give his opinion on the band's newest song. No, he was not up for visitors. The murmurs of excitement continued as more patrons came in and heard the news, and carried it back to wherever they came from. But most of them seemed to understand, to some degree, what Hermes left unsaid: Orpheus had been through hell and back, and the journey had taken its toll. When the murmur of voices began to rise above a hum, someone or other would shush the whole bar. The band played more quietly, skipping the songs that tended to get people stomping and dancing in favor of more mellow ones.

The Fates, huddled in their favorite corner booth, exchanged knowing glances with one another. Hermes refused to look at them as he passed their table.

When he made his way upstairs around noon with a bowl of watery soup he had managed to scrounge up, Hermes found Orpheus lying on his side with one arm hanging off the edge of the mattress. He might have seemed asleep, except that his hand moved slowly to and fro in time with the music, and there was a faint smile about his lips. When Hermes gently touched his shoulder, Orpheus opened his eyes.

"New song?" he whispered.

Hermes nodded.

"I like it," Orpheus murmured.

"I'll be sure to tell them you said so," said Hermes.

No one complained when Hermes closed the bar early that night. He gathered what few supplies he could find—mostly cold water and old rags—onto a tray, and mounted the stairs to the apartment. When he opened the door to the bedroom, Orpheus raised his head, a look of hopeful anticipation on his face, which quickly gave way to disappointment.

"It's you," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Hermes asked. He set the tray down on the battered old desk under the window.

"Where's…Eurydice…?" he murmured faintly.

Hermes sighed. "Don't make me tell it again, Orpheus," he begged.

"Where is she?" Orpheus asked.

"She's not here," Hermes said gently. "Don't you remember?"

Orpheus slumped back against the pillow. "So it's true?" he said. "She's really…gone?"

"Yes," was all Hermes could manage to say.

"I thought…" Orpheus murmured, "…I heard footsteps…she called my name…"

Hermes laid a hand on Orpheus' forehead. "Fevers can make you dream all sorts of things," he said. "But I'm afraid that's all it was."

Orpheus opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, he began to cough. Hermes helped him sit up, rubbing his back until the fit passed, and then put another pillow under his head to keep Orpheus propped up in hopes he would be able to breathe more easily. He poured a cupful of water from the pitcher he had brought, and held it to the boy's parched lips.

Orpheus took a couple of sips and then sank back against the pillows.

"Mr. Hermes?" Orpheus whispered.

"Yes?" Hermes replied.

"Am I…going to see…Eurydice…?"

"Someday," Hermes answered.

"Soon?" Orpheus asked.

Hermes sighed. "I don't know," he said softly.

"Do you…think…she remembers…me?"

"Of course she does."

"But the Underworld…makes you…forget."

"Brother, no one in Hadestown could forget what you did. Trust me."

Hermes soaked a rag in cool water, wrung it out, and began dabbing it across Orpheus' hot forehead. The poet closed his eyes and sighed.

"Have I done enough, Mr. Hermes?" he whispered.

"What do you mean, Orpheus?" Hermes asked.

Orpheus paused to draw in a long breath before he spoke. "I know I'll never see her again in this world," he said. "I know now the only way to get to her…is to go the same way she did. Ever since I left, I've been trying…to save up… Every step I've taken…every song I've played…every penny I've earned…it's all been for her." Orpheus clutched weakly at Hermes' hand. "Mr. Hermes, please," he whispered. "I need to know…is it enough?"

Hermes wrapped his hand around the poet's, returning Orpheus' weak grip with a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure it will be," he said quietly.

Orpheus slept fitfully that night: as tired as he was, the coughing fits would not allow him to sleep more than an hour at a time. Hermes kept vigil at his bedside, always ready to offer the sick young man whatever comfort he could.

Throughout the centuries, Hermes had seen plenty of human suffering. He tried to stay detached, hovering on the sidelines, offering aid when he could, but never letting himself be drawn in too deep. He had to: if he let the sad tale of every soul he conducted to the underworld flood his heart, it would have broken him long ago. But Orpheus made it hard to stay cool and aloof. That boy had always worn his heart out on his sleeve. He found so much joy in simple things that others took for granted. And he grieved over things others had long grown senseless to. He refused to become jaded, even though it left him vulnerable to being hurt. Over the years, Hermes had grown to admire his courage—for it was indeed courage, not mere naivety, that kept Orpheus hopeful and tender hearted in the face of all he had seen. Yet as Hermes wiped sweat from the poet's fevered brow, and watched his chest faintly rise and collapse with each labored breath, it seemed that whatever strength Orpheus held, that had carried him through each hardship, loss, struggle, and sorrow, was slowly ebbing away.

As dawn filled the room with a cold gray light, Orpheus fell into yet another harsh fit of coughing. He turned onto his side, facing away from Hermes—no matter how many times Hermes had assured him gods could not get sick, the boy was still either too polite or too shy to cough on his mentor. Still, the swift-footed god was at his side in a moment, lifting Orpheus by the shoulders and holding him up while he struggled to catch his breath. When the fit finally passed, Orpheus slumped in Hermes' arms, his head lolling against the god's shoulder. Hermes was about to lay him back down when he saw that the pillow was spotted with blood, like red flower petals scattered across snow. "Orpheus," he said, jostling the boy slightly in his arms. "Come on, kid. Breathe."

Orpheus moaned faintly, and stirred just a little. Hermes reached for a cup of water and held it to the boy's lips, but Orpheus turned his head away, coughing weakly into his shoulder. Tiny red droplets now dotted his shirt as well. Hermes pushed the soiled pillow out of the way and laid Orpheus back down. He draped a wet cloth over Orpheus' forehead, and used another to gently wipe the flecks of blood from the boy's lips. "Stay with me, brother," Hermes quietly pleaded. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

There was no music in the bar that day. The members of the band took turns pouring drinks and bussing tables, so that Hermes could give Orpheus his full attention. There was no laughter, no shouting, barely any conversation except for quiet murmurs here and there. Though no one said it out loud, everyone seemed to understand the reason for their shared solemnity.

Upstairs was just as quiet, save for the sound of Orpheus' labored breathing. He was too weak now to drink anything, even with Hermes holding his head and bringing the cup to his lips. From time to time he murmured incoherent things, but when Hermes spoke to him, he did not respond. Hermes continued to sit beside him, wiping sweat from his face, holding his hands, or running fingers through his hair. Orpheus might not be aware of his presence, but he still needed someone there, perhaps now more than ever.

When evening came, Hermes lit a candle on the desk near the bed. The shadows cast by the flickering light brought out the lines etched into Orpheus' face and the hollows in his cheeks. Hermes passed a hand over Orpheus' brow, as if he could smooth away some of the marks of pain and sorrow it held even in sleep. "You've been through the wringer, kid, that's for sure," he said softly. "I've seen plenty of souls in my time, and heard plenty of sad stories, but yours… Yours was supposed to go differently. You may have got a rough start, but you never let it get to you. You found someone who truly loved you. You went to hell and back for her. You brought the world back into tune…and you never got to enjoy any of it. You never asked for much out of life, but it seems like every time you found something good, it got ripped away from you. You should be married to Eurydice right now, building that home you talked about, raising a family. There's a million things you should have done and been. This can't be the way your story ends."

Even as Hermes spoke those words, he knew there was only one way for the story to end. No matter how many times he had told the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, he was powerless to change it, however much he wanted to. But it still seemed wrong that Orpheus, whose music had restored hope to a broken world, should never know any of its blessings himself. He never asked for much from life—only to live in peace, to love, and to help others do the same. Yet even those simple hopes had been crushed under the weight of his great sorrow, until all he had left to hope for was an end to his pain.

From outside the window, a sound broke through the stillness of the night. A nightingale's song, high and soft, yet ringing out clearly in the darkness. It was the first Hermes had heard that year. He raised his head and listened to the bird's chirps and trills, heralding the coming spring. He picked up the old lyre that was propped against the foot of the bed, and settled the instrument on his lap. It had been a long time since he had played, but as he began picking out a familiar melody, his hands remembered what to do, though he could not bring himself to sing. As he looked down at Orpheus, Hermes could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile flit across the poet's face.

As dawn approached, the candle by the bedside began to flicker and sputter, trailing off into a thin wisp of smoke just as the cold, pale gray of a winter morning filled the room.

Thought the window, Hermes glimpsed a lone gray figure crossing the frozen ground, slowly heading toward the station platform. Orpheus was lying still, his breathing slow and shallow. Hermes tucked the quilt a little closer around him, and went reluctantly down the stairs.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the platform. One of the Fates stood just outside the door. "The bar is closed," said Hermes.

The woman in gray smiled knowingly. "I just came by to drop this off," she said, handing Hermes a slip of paper. She slunk off before he could respond.

Hermes stood for a moment looking at the piece of paper in his hand. He ran his thumb over the name, printed in stark black letters, and breathed a long sigh.

He went back inside, and climbed the stairs back up to the apartment with heavy footsteps. When he entered the bedroom, he touched Orpheus on the shoulder. "A'ight," he said softly. He shook Orpheus gently, until the young man began to open his eyes. "Time to go," said Hermes.

He laid the piece of paper on the desk beside the bed. "What…is it?" Orpheus asked, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"Your ticket," said Hermes. "Come on, brother. Let's get you ready to see your bride."

Hermes was not a vain god, but he knew the power of keeping up a good appearance. At the very least, it made the journey a bit less fearful for the weary souls he conducted to Hadestown. He could not change Orpheus' story, but he would do what he could to prepare him for this final scene.

He managed to get Orpheus sitting up long enough to peel the thin, ragged shirt off of him, and then let him lie back against the pillows while Hermes sponged the dried sweat off his body. The hollow spaces between the young man's ribs, and the sharp edges of his collarbone jutting out as if the skin were stretched too tightly over them, sent a fresh pang of grief through Hermes' heart. It was a wonder Orpheus had managed to last as long as he did in such a state.

When he had finished with the sponge bath, Hermes wrapped Orpheus in a towel and got him propped up against the headboard of the bed. He laid out his shaving kit on the desk, and then began to lather up the poet's sunken cheeks. "You never could grow a beard," he sighed. "Eurydice won't want to kiss that scruff, anyhow." He shaved the uneven stubble, and then gently worked a comb through Orpheus' neglected hair, teasing apart the tangles and trimming the rough ends.

"You know," he said. "I used to imagine I'd be helping you get ready for your wedding one of these days. This ain't quite how I thought it would be. But we'll just have to make do with what we've got, won't we?"

He dusted the stray hairs off the back of Orpheus' neck, and then went to an old trunk at the foot of the bed. Hermes did not have an extensive wardrobe—being a god, his clothing did not wear and tear the same way mortal garments did—but he kept a few things for special occasions, and had saved a few odds and ends people had left behind in the bar to pass along to the next traveler who needed them. "Let's see what got here," he muttered to himself as he lifted the lid. He took out a clean white dress shirt, a little frayed at the cuffs, but otherwise in good condition; a black velvet vest, a little faded and missing a button; and a red silk scarf, bright and soft as carnation petals. His dress pants were not long enough for Orpheus' long legs, and would be far too wide at the waist now, so the boy would have to make do with what he had. The old shoes still lay under the bed, the soles worn through in places. Hermes decided to leave them there. Orpheus would not be walking the long road again.

He dressed Orpheus in the clothes he had found, tying the scarf into a loose knot around the poet's throat, in place of the ragged old bandana. "Have to say, you clean up pretty good," he said. He slipped an arm behind Orpheus' shoulders and slowly lowered him back down onto the bed. "Rest now, brother," he said. "I reckon it won't be much longer."

Orpheus looked up at Hermes, his eyes struggling to focus on the god's face. "What…will it…be like…?" he whispered, so faintly that Hermes had to lean in close to hear him.

Hermes sighed. "I don't know," he said. "That's one question the gods will never be able to answer."

"Will you…stay…with me?" Orpheus asked.

Hermes took the poet's thin hand in both of his. "To the end of the line," he said.

Hermes sat beside Orpheus in silence. There was nothing more to be said, and he could not bring himself to play the lyre now. He held Orpheus' hand, running his thumb back and forth across the bony knuckles, while a thousand memories, hopes, and regrets played across his mind.

At last the silence was broken by the low, mournful whistle of the train. Hermes patted Orpheus on the shoulder. "I'll be back," he said, though the young man made no reply.

Hermes made his way slowly down the stairs and stepped out onto the station platform. As the smoke cleared, a lady in a white fur mantle stepped off the train, clutching a suitcase.

"You're late," said Hermes.

"Hello to you too," Persephone replied as she sauntered toward him. "Are you really upset that I enjoy being with my husband? Even my mother's happy for us."

"There's a lot of folks up here depending on you," said Hermes. "Winter takes its toll on mortals."

"Well, never fear," said Persephone. "I'll give them a glorious summer and a bountiful harvest to make up for it. Now, give me a hand with this suitcase, and let's get the party going!"

Hermes took the suitcase from her. "Persephone," he said, looking her in the eye.

"What is it?" Persephone asked.

"Orpheus came home," said Hermes.

"Orpheus!" Persephone exclaimed. "Well, where is he? Where is my favorite poet?"

"He's upstairs," said Hermes. "Persephone…his ticket was delivered this morning."

Persephone's smile faded in an instant. "No…" she whispered.

"Come on in from the cold," said Hermes. "You're just in time to say goodbye."

Persephone followed Hermes up the stairs. As they approached the bedroom door, they heard Orpheus faintly gasping for breath. Persephone stopped and drew in a long breath of her own before she went in. She gathered her rustling skirts and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hey there, poet," she said, cupping his cheek in her hand.

Orpheus slowly opened his eyes. "Lady…Persephone…" he whispered.

"Yes," said Persephone. "I heard you were back in town, and I just had to see you. Summers haven't been the same around here without you, kid. No matter how hard the winter was, every time I'd see you smile when you came running to greet me, all of the sadness, and loneliness, and bitterness that had been piling up in my heart would melt away. And then…you sang your song right in the very place that held so much heartache and despair for me. You brought life back into my world, Orpheus. You reminded us of the way things used to be, and gave us hope they could be that way again."

A faint smile flickered across Orpheus' lips. Persephone clasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Things are different now in Hadestown, thanks to you," she said. "There's been a lot of changes in the last…however long it's been. It's still no paradise, but we're trying… And there's someone there who'll be so very happy to see you again."

"Eurydice?" Orpheus murmured.

Persephone smiled. "She's been down at the train station every day," she said. "She's never stopped waiting for you. She hoped you'd find a way to be happy, and live a long life. But she'll be glad to have you home at last."

Hermes settled into the chair beside the bed, taking Orpheus' other hand in both of his. Persephone ran her hand through Orpheus' hair, humming quietly. Neither of them spoke, but they hoped the poor boy found some comfort in their presence as his eyes drifted closed and his shallow breaths gradually grew slower and slower.

At last, Orpheus let out a slow, shuddering breath…and did not draw in another.

Persephone and Hermes looked at each other. "This is it," said Hermes. He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket, and handed it to Persephone, whose eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Persephone took it gratefully, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

Hermes had not carried Orpheus since the boy was very small. It was a different matter to gather the body of young man into his arms and carry him down the long, narrow staircase. But Hermes managed it somehow. A small crowd had gathered at the station platform, a few waiting to board the train, but most seemed to have come just to pay their respects. The musicians who usually played the bar had brought their instruments. As Hermes carried Orpheus toward the train, the band began to play a slow, soft melody, both mournful and hopeful.

The inside of the train was lined with low benches, cushioned with threadbare velvet. Hermes laid Orpheus down on one of the benches, carefully arranging his long limbs so that he could rest securely on the journey. Persephone came up beside him, carrying Orpheus' lyre. She laid the instrument on top of his legs, the head of it resting just below his heart. "Wait," she said. She stepped off the train. Hermes watched her cross the platform and go down the steps.

Persephone bent down and touched the frozen ground. Tiny, pale green shoots began to spring up in a small circle around her. When she stood up, she was holding a flower with ruffled red petals. She carried it back to the train. "We can't send him to meet his bride empty-handed," she said, tucking the flower between Orpheus' hands.

"My mama always said, 'Take what you can get, and make the most of it.' That's just what you always did. You took your talent, and your love, and you turned it into a gift to the whole world. Thank you, Orpheus."

"Things ain't gonna be the same up here without you, brother," Hermes said quietly. "You made me see how the world could be…thank you for that. Your story may be over, but it won't be forgotten. We're gonna sing it again, and again."

Persephone bent down and kissed Orpheus on the forehead. "Goodbye, brother," she said. "Just for now. I'll see you in the fall."

She hid her face in Hermes's handkerchief as they both stepped off the train. The remaining passengers handed Hermes their tickets, and walked or were carried on board. Hermes put his arm around Persephone's shoulders as the train whistle sounded three times, and the train slowly began to move away from the platform.

When the train had disappeared in the distance, the band and the few others who remained behind followed Hermes and Persephone back into the bar. Persephone opened her suitcase, and brought out several bottles of last summer's vintage. Hermes poured a cup for Persephone, and then made the rounds of the others gathered at the counter. They left one cup untouched.

Persephone raised her cup. "To Orpheus," she said. "And all of us."