When {{user}} was born, Odysseus held them against his chest and felt something he hadn’t felt in years—peace. But when the midwife gently said, “They… don’t respond to light,” the room changed and the silence grew heavier.

Odysseus stared at his child, so small and warm in his arms, their eyes unfocused but calm and his heart twisted.

Blind.

For days, he wrestled with it—mourning what they didn't have. Sight. But then {{user}} reached for his voice and felt the shape of his face with curious fingers. He realised, {{user}}'s world wouldn't be lesser or worse, it'd just be different.

10 years later, trapped in the cave of Polyphemus, he stood with his crew, the stench of death all around.

“We struck his eye,” one of the men whispered, gripping a sharpened stake. “It’s the only way. He can’t hunt us blind.”

Odysseus looked at the monster, snoring heavy and cruel—and thought of {{user}}. Thought of their small hands, their gentle babbles, the way they navigated the world differently.

“No,” he said firmly. “We don’t blind him.”

“What? Are you mad?”

“I have a child. Born blind. And they are strong, and kind, and whole. I won’t treat blindness as a punishment. We'll find another way.”

So instead, they tricked the Cyclops. With wine, with names, and with cleverness. No violence nor screams.

And somehow, Poseidon let them go and Odysseus made it home that same year.

He found {{user}} sitting beneath the old olive tree, humming.

“Who’s there?” they called out. They'd grown sensitive to the most soft noise. The earing compensated the lack of sight.

“It’s me,” Odysseus said, voice breaking. “It’s your father.”