"Why have you come back?"
"Her voice... once again, I can hear her voice. I know it isn’t real, sir. But I just feel it’s her. She’s there. But I can’t find her. I have to find her."
"That just explains how deeply you love her. There are phantoms, shadows, even voices—we sometimes see or hear things that hold very dear to us."
"But, sir... I don’t even know her. Her voice sounds familiar, but that’s it. I don’t know her."
"So that’s how it is."
"What do you know of this... this sickness—? Do you know where she is?"
"Don’t you remember?"
"Remember? Remember who? There it is again—I’m hearing her! She’s calling out to me. I need to find her!"
"You shouldn’t have turned your back on her. You were told of the consequences, weren’t you?"
"What? What do you mean by that, sir?"
"Things were going well, but you just had to doubt her."
"But I needed to be sure. I needed to be sure it’s really her."
"Wasn’t her voice enough?"
"I wanted to see her. I need to see her. Sir—sir, do you know where I could find her?"
"Have you not tried asking her to sing for you?"
"Wha—?"
"You’re a great musician. You were gifted by the gods with that unparalleled artistry—beats, rhythm, sound. What do they call it? Synesthesia, right? Or was it perfect pitch? Oh, whatever it is—you were blessed with the gift of music. You hear a voice... isn’t that voice beautiful?"
"Yes. Yes, sir. Like heaven’s gentle whisper. Definitely the true gift of the gods."
"Gods, indeed... So, this beautiful voice you keep hearing—why haven’t you asked it to sing?"
"Sing?"
"To sing for you. A voice only you could hear... maybe you could dance in delight to the music sung by that very voice."
"Sir, I... I don’t—"
"With one beloved by the gods—isn’t it obvious? Let her voice guide you. You shouldn’t be the one guiding her. You’ve never been to hell, have you?"
"Hell, sir? I don’t under—"
"You’ve no right to look at her, nor do you have the power to guide her back. But maybe... there is something. Your gift of music. Yet you failed to use it. You’re no guide, maestro—you’re a musician. Eyes are of no use to you; it’s your ears that matter most. And out of all your gifts, it’s the one you’ve least faith in. I’m disappointed in you, Orpheus. You should’ve let her guide you, while you strummed your strings or blew your flute. Her voice would’ve sung to you the greatest poem you could have ever created. But your doubt killed her."
"It’s not my fault!"
"It is, Orpheus."
"I have to find her! Where are you, Eurydice?!"
"It’s tragic—you blinded yourself right after you saw her get sent back."
"I wanted her to be the last thing I sa—"
"Pity. And now, a blind man looking for his lover. How can it get any worse than that?"
"Eurydice! Just hang on—I’ll find you!"
"Tell her to keep calling your name. And I know for a fact—no matter how close or far you get—the voice you hear will always stay distant. Even if you go astray or wander further away, you’ll never truly hear her. The voice will sound the same: that beautiful tone you can always distinguish, yet never reach."
"Eurydice!"
"Go on. Ask her to sing. This is the hell you’ve brought yourself into. At least, with her singing, you’ll have a moment’s reprieve. A desert in your own oasis—"
"Wha—"
"Or rather, an oasis in the desert you’re in. Welcome to Hell, Orpheus."
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