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I wouldn’t know I was cold if it weren’t for Eurydice’s hand reminding me, my skin tingling under her warm fingers. I had almost put on something warmer before I left, but my favorite part of our little walks is warming up with her after, so I could bear the cold for a few minutes. It’s been a noticeably cool November, its chill beginning weeks ago when Persephone was gathered early by her husband. Although Eurydice and I both understand that this could be the beginning of something bad, we choose not to think of it much. We almost died helping the gods several winters ago, and now we happily live only for each other.
Hermes hates the breaks we go on during the day, but under his glare is a glaringly obvious sweet spot for my wife and I. He’s never stopped us, and I’m certain he never will. Despite his uncaring demeanor, Eurydice and I know that he likes the time he gets to spend on Earth, watching the railroad station and the mortals that visit there. It’s impossible to miss the obvious life he brings to the room, and I’ve never failed to notice the way his eyes light up when he tells a new story.
When Hermes leaves, Eurydice and I run the station along with a few others. We were never technically employed, but the artists with nowhere to go always seem to end up here. Our story is always the same: We showed up one day in the blazing hot or freezing cold, searching for shelter, and found this place. The industrial space was seemingly insignificant, another stop along the road, but something about it drew us in. Everywhere you go, you find people who are just trying to survive. This place is somehow different. It radiates with hope in the winter, joy in the summer. It’s always obvious who will stay, right from the moment they cross through the door. Most keep their dull, lifeless eyes from the moment they walk in to the moment they walk out, but the ones who stay always look around with wonder at the laughter and music flowing from the room.
Most people that pass by don’t have homes. It’s normal in big cities for people to sleep in the same bed each night, but out here, staying in one spot simply means that resources will continually get slimmer and enemies will have an easier job of finding you. In this world, you are on your own. Unless you come to the railroad station. There is a small neighborhood made of cobblestone streets and dull skies which used to be full of people, but when resources started dimming, it was abandoned. We now live in those houses. They aren’t fancy, but they have everything we could ever need. Whenever we meet someone who decides to stay, we help them choose a house, and they become a part of the family.
As the god of messengers, Hermes was the first to know about the railroad station. He refuses to tell what he used it for, and the building’s exact history will never be more than speculation. Some claim that this is where he once met with the mortals he seduced, which would explain how the place began gaining popularity among people. When Persephone came up for the summer one year, she noticed the dead town and began exploring until she eventually found Hermes and the small group of mortals who made a home out of the station. Pleased with the unusually hopeful and cheery attitude of the group, she brought wine enough for the entire summer and partied with them until eventually she had to return to the Land of the Dead. When she returned after another long, frigid winter, the few mortals who stuck around cheered at her return and welcomed her back like no time had passed at all. She eventually learned of the struggles they faced during the dead winter and took it upon herself to grow a forest right in their backyard. She swore that if no one ever took too much, that forest would provide food for them for decades to come. Each winter she comes back with more wine and stories, her face lit up with a wide smile that doesn’t seem to fade until her husband comes back for her. She hardly ever leaves, and the goddess has said many times before that this is her favorite place to go during her time on Earth.
Slowly, people started finding the place on their travels, and the mortals opened a bar. They charged little for the wine, instead asking for stories of the world to cure the loneliness that came from living so separated from everybody else. This is how it started, and it grew and grew until our little community of singers, painters and writers was finally born.
Eurydice was different. She didn’t paint, sing, or write. But she fit in immediately. The sparkle in her eyes when she looked around is what made me fall in love with her, a look which still returns every single time she walks in the station. She’s an artist in her own way. She’s a master hunter. She can tell you everything about a bow and arrow and which animal every single paw print belongs to. It’s as magical watching her slash with her knife as it is watching the painter’s brush glide across the page.
A smile crosses my face as I release her hand and brace my arm behind her back, swinging her around to face me. In one motion, I sweep her hair back from her face and pull her in for a gentle kiss. My heart still flutters when she leans her forehead against mine, grinning against my lips and quietly promising her love to me.
The station, to me and to every other artist there, is not just a place. Life’s little joys, joys everyone else seems to have forgotten, they’re found there. The world is not perfect, but even after winter freezes the ground and summer burns the forests, we’re all together. And it’s where I found Eurydice. Who could ask for anything more?