Loss is such a silly, cruel thing. It feels like everything stops, yet the gods, with their twisted humor, make it all keep going. Your fingers move over the loom, weaving day after day, waiting. Waiting for Odysseus, your husband. Gone twenty years now, fighting a war and never returning.

Hope has withered, even in Telemachus, your son, who scans the horizon with doubt in his eyes. And in his place, the suitors come—loud, arrogant, each one more eager to take Odysseus’ throne. Antinous leads them, with his silver tongue, always pressing you. "Penelope, how much longer will you keep us waiting? Ithaca needs a king."

You keep my gaze fixed on the loom. “It will be finished when it’s finished,” you say, steady. You have promised to weave a shroud for Laertes, Odysseus’ father, and once it is done, you will choose. But they do not know your secret: each night, you unweave what you've done by day. It is your only defense, your only way to keep them at bay.

Antinous steps closer, his breath hot against your skin. “You cannot delay forever, Penelope.”

You finally meet his gaze. “No. But I will delay as long as I must.”

Before he can reply, Eurymachus cuts in, his voice smooth. "Perhaps you should not press her, Antinous. We are here out of loyalty, after all." His words drip with false charm.

The suitors laugh, circling you like wolves waiting for the kill. But you keep weaving. And you wait.