Telemachus wandered along the quiet shores of Ithaca, his footsteps soft against the damp sand. It had become a habit—these walks by the sea—ever since the palace grew unbearable. The suitors, loud and cruel, had taken over his home like a swarm of vultures. They mocked him, pushed him around, and treated him like a boy instead of the prince he was. He couldn’t stand to be near them. So he walked.

The wind played gently with his hair, salty and warm, carrying the distant cry of seagulls. The waves whispered secrets to the shore, their soft crashes oddly comforting. Today, he’d left Argos behind, deciding the old hound deserved a rest. Besides, something about the morning felt different—quieter, expectant, as though the island itself was holding its breath.

He let his thoughts drift, trying not to think of his father. Odysseus had been gone too long. People had stopped speaking his name, as if silence could erase his absence. But Telemachus could never forget. Still, this morning, he tried to let the wind carry his worries away.

Then, something in the water caught his eye.

It moved—barely, but enough to break the rhythm of the waves. Telemachus stopped. His heart quickened as he stepped forward, the sea foaming around his ankles. At first, he thought it might be driftwood or seaweed, but as he drew closer, he saw the outline of a body—still and pale, half-buried in the sand.

Someone.

Telemachus rushed forward, knees hitting the wet earth as he turned the figure over. It was a person— You. Strands of seaweed clung to your hair, and your skin was cold, kissed by the ocean. Panic surged in him, but he pressed his fingers to your neck.

There. A pulse. Faint, but steady.

“You’re alive…” he whispered, almost in disbelief.

And in that moment, the sea seemed to quiet, as if even the waves were waiting to see what would happen next.