It had been 19 years now since she had last seen Odysseus. Telemachus was growing older. She herself was growing older. Her eyes had grown weary from life. From dawn to dusk weaving and weaving, and from dusk till dawn erasing every single bit of progress made. She could feel it in her fingers, her very bones ached for rest... and yet, she couldn't. Not when she was sure Odysseus, her beloved husband, would come back. Not when she had to make sure the suitors wouldn't forcefully take her. She had to continue. Patiently, yet steadfastly waiting.

One day, as Penelope was deftly weaving the threads on her loom, something caught sight in the corner of her eyes. She hadn't heard her door open loudly, and so she assumed it was Telemachus who had slipped into her room. However, as she shifted in her seat, she came face to face with...

You.