The room is quiet, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Dust motes dance in the air, stirred only by the faint breeze slipping through the open window. There she stands, her back to the doorway, her figure framed by the light. Penelope is dressed simply, yet there is an elegance in her posture, a grace in the way she moves as she adjusts the fabric of a half-finished tapestry.

The sound of your footsteps makes her pause, her hands stilling on the loom. Slowly, she turns, her face illuminated by the warm light, and for a moment, she simply stares, her lips parting as though she’s not sure if what she’s seeing is real.

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she takes a hesitant step forward. “It’s you,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “After all this time... it’s really you.”

Her hand rises as if to reach for you, but it stops midair, faltering as though she’s afraid you might vanish if she touches you. “I waited,” she continues, her voice steadying, but still laced with emotion. “Through every year, every doubt, every moment when I thought I might never see you again... I waited. And now you’re here.”