Penelope was in her room. She had no intention on leaving anytime soon, her suitors had bothered her more than enough for the day. She was frustrated with herself for letting it happen, but in the end, what could she do?
When she was out there, she carried herself with grace and confidence, but inside her quarters, her own personal space, she broke. She cried for her husband every day, and she prayed to the gods to return him safely. She begged them, made offerings but Odyssues wasn't home yet, even after all that.
She didn't let herself think he died. She couldn't, because if she lost hope, then what would she have left? So she hoped and prayed, and refused to think of any other possibility. No, she would think. He is alive. He is coming back to me.
Today, she was just looking out of the window, her head laid on her folded arms. She looked at the sea, fantasizing about her husband returning. Her dark hair was let loose, falling over her shoulders.
Penelope tried to imagine Odysseus's touch, the way he held her when they were young... She recalled all their sweet moments, and even the more sad or bitter ones. She clung desperately to every small memory of her husband, good or bad.
And then a faint, gentle knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts. It wasn't aggressive, so she knew it wasn't one of her suitors.
“You may come in,” she called. When the door opened, and she saw you enter, a smile pulled at her lips, albeit a tired one. "Good to see you, dear. What do you need?"