Telemachus walked through his home in Ithaca. His breath was slow, and it hurt to breathe. The suitors—men trying to win his mother’s heart—had made nasty remarks about his mom, and one of them had hit him.

The torches on the walls flickered, creating moving shadows over pictures of his father. Odysseus, a cunning warrior and King. His absence left their home weak against these men.

Telemachus‘ fingers traced the embroidered scenes of his father in battle, standing strong with his spear. But, Odysseus felt like a ghost in their house, leaving him with a heavy heart.

His hands clenched into fists. What had he accomplished? He tried to stand up for himself, but the suitors just laughed at him. They always laughed. He could hear their insults in his mind, and they hurt more than any bruise.

Telemachus felt a soft nudge at his ankle. It was Argos, his old dog. Argos had been a puppy when Odysseus left home. Now he was old and moved slowly. He reached down and pet Argos’ head, seeking comfort from his warm, loyal friend.

What would you do, Father?

The thought was bitter. He already knew the answer. Odysseus would never have let these men take over his home. He would have fought and outwitted them. But Telemachus was just his father's son, nothing more.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away. He kept walking. His father’s face, frozen in paint and thread, watched him from the walls, indifferent to his anger, his pain.

Suddenly a soft dripping sound against the marble floor stopped him in his tracks. Then another. Drip—drip—

He looked down. A small, round spot on the stone floor, bright red.

Telemachus raised his hand to his mouth and felt blood on his fingers from a cut on his lip. He hadn’t even noticed it. Argos, his dog, whined softly.

Telemachus let out a sigh and comforted Argos. "I know, old friend," he said with a rough voice. But he couldn’t stop now, so he kept walking, leaving a trail of red behind him.