Think back over the final chapters. A mouse shouts about fortunes while a cat asks one quiet question, and the question wins. A cricket plays an old Italian song so purely that taxicabs stop rolling and a thousand hurrying people stand still, remembering fields they have never seen. At midnight a cat pads through the tunnels toward the great starred ceiling of Grand Central, a cricket and a silver bell riding between his ears. And in the morning a boy looks at an empty pagoda cage and smiles — because somewhere northeast of the city, in the browning September grass, the best musician in New York is playing for no audience at all, for no schedule at all, for joy.

Long before radios or concert halls, the ancient Greeks told of Orpheus, the greatest musician who ever lived. His instrument was the lyre, a small harp of seven strings, and when he played and sang, the legendary power of his music changed the world around him. Wild beasts — lions, wolves, bears — lay down gently at his feet to listen. Trees pulled their roots and leaned closer. Rivers, it was said, paused in their beds so their splashing would not spoil the song.

His music charmed everything that heard it — not by force or magic spells, but by pure beauty. The Greeks told this story to make a bold claim about music itself: that a perfect song does not simply entertain the world — it can stop the world, holding every listener spellbound for as long as the melody lasts. Thousands of years later, writers still reach for Orpheus whenever a musician’s gift seems too great to explain. Poets, composers, and novelists have all borrowed his name for the very same purpose. To call a performer an Orpheus is the highest praise music knows: it means the whole world might stand still to listen.

No right or wrong — tell someone nearby what happened in this part. Can’t find anyone? Tell yourself out loud. The moment you teach it, you truly understand it.