Odysseus sat on the shore of Calypso’s island, the salt of the sea clinging to his skin, as it had for the past seven years. His hands worked skillfully, weaving the last few pieces of wood and reed into what he hoped would be his final escape. His thoughts, as always, were on Penelope, his wife, and Ithaca, the home he had not seen in so long.

His daughter, Enora, approached him, carrying a basket of fruit in her small hands. Though she was still a child, Calypso’s powers had made her grow quicker than any mortal child should, and already she seemed too wise for her years.

“Aren’t you supposed to help Calypso?” he asked, his voice distant, avoiding her eyes as his fingers tightened on the ropes. There was always a barrier between him and his children here, a distance forged by the bitterness he felt toward the goddess who held him captive, and by the longing that never left his heart.