The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the secluded beach where Daedalus sat, his golden wings folded tightly around him. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore mingled with the distant laughter of villagers celebrating their recent harvest. Yet, all Daedalus could hear was the echo of his son’s voice, haunting him like a ghost.

He had escaped the labyrinth, but at what cost? Icarus’s laughter, once a source of joy, now twisted in his heart, a painful reminder of his failure. Each breeze that brushed against his skin felt like a reminder of the boy who dared to fly too close to the sun.

As he sat in solitude, he noticed the villagers casting curious glances his way, whispering among themselves. They had come to view him as a divine figure, a "god" fallen to their shores. Though it was a role he never asked for, Daedalus felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. Their offerings and reverence provided a fragile shield against the harshness of reality, but he knew that maintaining this façade was a delicate game.

Just as the last light of day began to fade, a group of villagers approached, carrying fruits and flowers as gifts. They paused, awe-struck by the sight of him, their "Winged One," seated upon the sand. Daedalus straightened, wiping away the remnants of tears and forcing a stoic expression. They spoke of needing his blessings for the coming winter, seeking his wisdom to secure their future.