Chapter Text
Prologue
Orpheus and Eurydice’s love was so powerful that, even after her tragic death, Orpheus defied the boundaries of life and death to bring her back from the underworld. Through his music, he pleaded to Hades and Persephone to grant him the chance to bring back Eurydice. Hades granted her return on one condition: Orpheus must lead her to the surface without looking back. But as they climbed the dark, narrow passage to the living world, Orpheus saw the light of the sun and was outstripped with a sudden joy—a joy so deep that he wanted to share it with Eurydice. In that moment, he looked back, and he lost her forever.
The air in the public library buzzed with excitement, a soft hum mingling with the rustle of pages and the gentle shuffle of feet. Tall shelves lined the walls, crammed with books that seemed to lean in, eager to listen to the unfolding story. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm patches of light across the polished wooden floor, where colorful carpets broke the monotony, inviting patrons to sit and linger.
In the center of the library, a makeshift stage had been set up, adorned with a simple table draped in soft white fabric. On it lay copies of When Orpheus Looks Back , their glossy covers catching the light like a beacon. Morgan sat behind the table, her heart racing as she scanned the sea of eager faces. A diverse crowd had gathered—old friends, family, and curious strangers—all drawn together by the promise of her words. The intimate space felt alive, charged with anticipation.
Rows of folding chairs faced the table, some preferred to sit while others stayed standing at the back, murmurs of discussion filling the air. At the right side of the stage, a printed canvas with the book cover and a photo of Morgan and her cat was displayed elegantly, a subtle reminder of the journey that had led her here.
As Morgan adjusted her notes, the soft mumbles of the crowd faded into a hush, their attention fully captured. She took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the spotlight and the comforting presence of books surrounding her, each one holding stories of their own. In this moment, she was not just sharing her words; she was inviting everyone into her world—a world woven with love, loss, and lingering.
When asked to share the premise of the book, Morgan’s heart quickened, and a rush of warmth spread through her. This was it—the moment she had dreamed of but now felt all too real. She swallowed as she felt a lump in her throat, suddenly dry as she glanced down at the table where her book lay, its cover an absolute proof that it was all real. Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, she let her fingers lightly trace the spine, grounding herself in the tactile connection to her work.
“Many literatures say that doubt is the reason why Orpheus looked back, afraid of the thought that Eurydice chose to stay.”
“I believe the opposite. What if Orpheus looked back not out of doubt about Eurydice, but to see if she felt the same kind of happiness as he did? What if he looked back to take a glimpse of her reaction, to witness if they shared not only the journey but the joy of reaching the end together?”
“I believe that it was not Eurydice’s decision that Orpheus was doubting, but his own - the path that he chose to lead her to.”
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Chapter 1: When Orpheus Met Eurydice
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The city noise is a little more chaotic than usual. People rush past without a second glance, their eyes on their phones, as if the world around them does not exist. All are in hurried steps but with a common purpose - to end the day, surviving.
Morgan isn’t bothered by the chaos. In fact, she finds solitude in observing this pattern around her. “One tall Americano for Morgan”, the barista calls to hand her usual coffee fix. She mouths a timid “thank you” as she picks up the coffee on the counter, almost soundless but sincere.
The sound of a small brass bell rings as she exits the cafe. She walks relatively slowly compared to the people around her. If the polluted skies of the city can see them, she’s like a snail peacefully ambling with an army of busy ants moving in haste.
To enjoy her coffee while observing the world around her, that’s what she wants. It has always been part of her morning routine - seeing familiar strangers all dressed up and put together in seemingly cheap tailored suits, all sweaty with the heat of the morning sun.
After walking two blocks, she stops just right on the corner street of the city. She’s holding her cup of coffee in her left hand while reaching for a key in her right pocket.
When she opens the door, there is a whole new world of comfort and quiet - almost sacred. Shelves line up across the room, filled with books of every kind, their spines worn from time and touch. The smell of old paper fills the air, mixing with the faint smell of coffee that she’s holding. She owns a small bookstore where she spends her day from Mondays to Sundays.
After finishing the morning tasks of cleaning and listing inventories, she flips the sign at the door signifying the shop is now open.
Morgan sits behind the counter, flipping absentmindedly through a dog-eared novel.
I am a drifter, and as lonely as that can be, it is also remarkably freeing.
A line from the book that she has already memorized but still closely reads in her head as if looking for a whole different meaning.
She has read this book a few dozen times but still finds herself drawn to the words, the familiar comfort of every page. Her bookstore is her own little universe, a place where she can hide from the chaotic world outside. People come and go, but they never stay long. That’s how she likes it - connections kept at arm’s length.
So engrossed in reading, she suddenly hears the soft chimes above the door. A female, in her early 20’s, about the same age as hers, steps inside, her presence immediately breaking the stillness of the atmosphere. The girl is wearing a corporate outfit with a black turtleneck long-sleeved top tucked in a gray plaid skirt, a black leather bag on her right shoulder and a matching plaid blazer hanging on her left arm.
An ant. Morgan mentally laughs at a reference she just made. To avoid a lingering stare, she diverts her attention to the rusty clock above the door. It’s 10:30 in the morning. She made a mental note. After all, she does not want to be called a weirdo for staring.
“Hi! How may I help you today?” She said, sounding a little too formal than usual. She’s not good with names but she remembers faces. She knows it is her first time to visit the shop. The girl smiled with a slight sigh of relief as if she had found a pleasant escape.
“Hello! I just like to look around if that’s okay?” The girl responds, her eyes already exploring the bookstore from the entrance. Morgan nods welcomingly, sensing that the girl wanted to be left alone.
"Alright. If you need any assistance, I’m just here.” She opens the book once again and proceeds to read, leaving the girl to her own business.
She flips a page and notices that the girl is meticulously searching the selection of books in the shop, starting at the very first shelf in the far left corner where the nonfiction section is located. Maybe she’s looking for business and management books. She thought as it fits the way she looks.
But the girl continues to examine the books on the shelves and is now in the fiction section - the largest section in the shop. Or maybe she’s fond of action and adventure… I wonder what she’ll pick. Fantasy? No. Historical fiction? No. Horror and thriller? Still no. Mystery? Not that either. Romance? Science fiction? Shorts? Young adult? Still a no. Morgan, a bit frustrated by not being able to guess what the girl is looking for, stops lurking and returns to reading the book again, but she doesn’t read the words anymore. She just waits.
Moments pass and she finally sees the girl pick up a book from the shelf. Holding a book in her hand, she approaches the counter. She delicately places it down, almost hesitantly - an old faded copy of The Great Gatsby.
Morgan smiles and slightly raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I don’t think this is your first time reading this.”
The girl, a bit confused, just shrugs lightly. “I’ve read it a few times but I keep coming back to it. There’s something about the way Gatsby keeps on reaching for something he can’t quite touch…”
Morgan leans forward slightly with an unreadable expression. “And yet, you’re still drawn to it. Even knowing it never ends well.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the book between them felt like a bridge of sorts. The small conversation feels simple on the surface - just two people talking about an arguably overrated novel - but beneath it, there’s a quiet understanding. The girl reads The Great Gatsby because she understands the longing and the ache of wanting something just out of reach while Morgan, on the other hand, sees the futility in it, the way people chase after illusions.
The girl tilts her head, studying Morgan with curiosity. “What about you? You run a bookstore, but you haven’t moved a page from that book since I came in.” She said, glancing at the David Levithan novel on the counter with a coffee receipt for a bookmark.
At that moment, Morgan notices that the girl has a remarkable attention to detail. Because how can she know she hasn't moved a page? Maybe I wasn’t the only one watching. The idea crosses her mind.
Morgan shrugs, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smile. “I guess I’m not the type to get attached to stories. I prefer the ones that are over before they even begin.” Testing a theory, she lets her mind speak out loud.
A pause for silence fills the air, the girl looks down at the book in her hands again, fingers brushing the pages. “That’s a little sad, don’t you think?”
Morgan’s eyes flicker with something. She’s really good with details. Maybe a little too good for my own sake. She quickly masked her fleeting vulnerability with a smile. “Maybe it’s just realistic.”
The girl hesitates as if she wants to say something more, but instead, she places the payment on the counter, picks up the book, and gives a small nod signaling she is about to leave. “Thanks.”
Morgan quickly speaks, as if wanting to make the conversation longer. “Uhm may I know your name?” She said, a bit dry and emotionless to mask her growing curiosity.
“Why would you need to know my name?” The girl responded in a judging tone, her brows furrowed.
Morgan seems a bit caught off guard but quickly thinks of an excuse, “I take my taxes seriously. It’s for the receipt.”
The girl shrugs, “It’s Avery.” She replies, unconvinced but compelled to.
With a winning smile, Morgan hands over the receipt and watches her go. Her image disappears as soon as the chimes stop making a sound. She is left there staring at the empty space, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her book.
She’s not good with names but she made a mental note to remember. Avery. What an interesting ant.