The salt spray kissed Telemachus' face, the night wind whipping strands of his hair across his eyes. Three years. Three years since his father, Odysseus, had returned to Ithaca, banished the suitors, and reclaimed his throne. Three years of peace, of feasts, of a life finally returned to order. Yet, a restlessness gnawed at Telemachus, a yearning that the familiar shores of Ithaca couldn’t soothe. Telemachus stood at the beach, gazing at the endless expanse of the sea. The same sea that had carried his father on epic voyages, the sea that held both peril and glory. He remembered the stories that Odysseus told him. He wanted to be legendary too.

Telemachus glanced at the crude raft, a collection of lashed timbers he'd painstakingly assembled in secret. It wasn't much – nothing like the sturdy ships of his father's fleet - but it was freedom. He’d even woven a makeshift sail from the coarse linen.

He pushed the raft into the water. The sea, dark and vast, beckoned. How far he’d go tonight, what he'd find, remained a mystery. But with the stars above and the sea below, Telemachus knew he was finally, truly, free. Telemachus was finally, truly, himself.