The hall is loud — too loud.

Suitors sprawl across benches like they own the place, boots on tables, wine sloshing freely as laughter echoes off the stone walls. One strums a lyre badly. Another argues over who gets the biggest cut of lamb. A third tips back a goblet and misses his mouth entirely, spilling red down his tunic like a poorly earned badge of honor.

“Refill!” one shouts, slamming his cup down. “Another song!” another yells, though no one agrees on which song.

At the far end of the room, Penelope does not look up.

Her loom stands tall and steady, warp threads taut beneath her fingers. Click—pull—tighten. Her movements are calm, practiced, deliberate. Each thread slips into place like a promise she refuses to break.

She hears everything. She reacts to nothing.

The suitors grumble about her silence, about the waiting, about how long a woman can possibly weave one shroud — but Penelope only adjusts her grip and continues, eyes sharp, mind sharper. The loom sings softly beneath her hands, a quieter music that refuses to be drowned out.

Across the hall, Telemachus darts between the chaos.

He ducks a flying crust of bread with a laugh, skids to a stop beside a pillar, and peers up at the ceiling beams like he’s imagining sails instead of stone. His hair is wind-tousled despite being indoors, his grin restless, hungry for something more.

He climbs onto a bench — earning groans from the suitors as it wobbles beneath him — and balances there with arms spread wide.

“Careful, boy!” one suitor calls. “Fall and you’ll crack your skull.”

Telemachus hops down lightly. “I won’t,” he says, bright and fearless. “Heroes don’t fall that easily.”

A few suitors snort. “A hero?” one scoffs. “From here?”

Telemachus doesn’t answer. He glances toward his mother.

Penelope finally looks up — just for a heartbeat. Their eyes meet. Hers holds quiet strength, patient as tides. His shines with questions, with longing, with a future that refuses to sit still.

That’s all he needs.

Telemachus grabs a wooden practice sword leaning against the wall and darts for the courtyard, laughter trailing behind him like a challenge. Outside, he swings at shadows, at imagined monsters, at the idea of a father who might still be out there fighting the world.