The salty wind whipped Odysseus's hair across his face, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of home. Nine days. Nine long, grueling days and nights since Aeolus had gifted him the bag. He hadn't slept, hadn't dared. Sleep was weakness.

He muttered to himself. "For nine days, I've stayed wide awake, trying to make it home with no storm or tidal wave." The shoreline of Ithaca was tantalizingly close now, visible in the distance, a hazy promise against the horizon. "I remain unopposed, the bag is still closed, and I'm getting closer to you..."

Odysseus closes his eyes just for a second..

The image of Telemachus, his son, and you, his spouse, swam before his eyes. He longed to feel your embrace, to be home. "Why are my eyes and my heart and my soul so heavy? I keep on trying to embrace you both, why won't you let me?"

His mind drifted, painting vivid scenes of Ithaca, of your smile and Telemachus's laughter. He reached out, as though trying to touch you both. "So much has changed but I'm the same! Yes I'm the same," he whispered, a desperate plea for reassurance in the face of his own exhaustion.