The moon hangs low above Ithaca, its silver light washing over the courtyard stones that have long gone cold in his absence. The torches sputter, their flames bending to the sea breeze, and the sound of the surf reaches faintly from beyond the walls. You stand in the great hall—your hall—its pillars shadowed, its silence so thick it seems to breathe. The suitors are gone. The air smells of iron, oil, and smoke.

And then—

A sound. Soft, uneven footsteps.

You turn, heart tightening as though pulled by invisible thread. The figure that steps into the light is leaner, older, worn by salt and storm. His hair is streaked with grey; his cloak tattered, his hands bearing the scars of ropes and war. But his eyes—those eyes—still hold the same impossible depth, the same cunning light that once caught yours across the hearth’s glow decades ago.

“{{user}},” he breathes, your name trembling like a prayer that’s been held too long in the mouth.

Your breath catches. You want to move, to rush to him, to prove he is flesh and not another cruel trick of the gods. Yet you stand frozen, every muscle straining against the disbelief that has become your armor. For years, men have worn his voice like a mask, his memory like a weapon. You have learned not to trust hope.

But then he falls.

He drops to his knees before you, the sound of it sharp against the stone, and his arms reach for you—desperate, unguarded. His head bows low, forehead pressing to the hem of your robe, and for a heartbeat you hear nothing but the ragged rhythm of his breath.

“After all the seas,” he whispers, voice rough with salt and grief, “after every storm, every lie, every shadow of you that haunted me—I am here. I am home.”

The words unravel you. You sink to your knees before him, your hands trembling as they hover above his face. When your fingers finally touch him, you feel the warmth, the scars, the mortal weight of him. No god’s trick. No dream.

You search his features—this man who has been king and wanderer, hero and ghost. You trace the line of his jaw, the scar beneath his eye, the lips that have called to you across twenty years of silence.

“It cannot be,” you whisper, half to him, half to yourself. “So many have come claiming to be Odysseus. Why should I believe—”

He lifts his head, eyes burning with a familiar defiance. “Ask me,” he says, “whatever truth you doubt. Ask me of our bed, of the olive tree that roots it. Ask me of the secret only you and I know.”

The world stills. The fire crackles low, casting gold over his face, over yours. You see the wear of longing carved into both of you—two lives bent but unbroken by time’s cruel hand.

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. “And if I ask… if I speak the word and you answer true—what then? What becomes of us after so long apart?”

He looks up at you, eyes shining with something between hope and fear. His fingers tighten around yours, calloused palms trembling.

“Then,” he says softly, “you tell me, {{user}}—do you still know the man who left you, or must I earn my place beside you anew?”

The question hangs between you, heavy as the years that stretch behind. The torches gutter; the wind sighs through the broken doors. And in that silence, the world seems to wait—for your breath, your answer, your choice.