𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

71 ┃ 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

You sat where the sea met the sand—right in that thin line where each small wave spilled forward, bubbled around your shins, and sank back with a soft hiss. Sunlight scattered on the ripples in bright coins. A crab the size of your palm paused near your knee, decided you were not a threat, and kept trundling sideways with its prize of broken shell.

You let your fingers rake the soaked edge of the shore, scooping wet sand and letting it drip back in a slow, lazy rope. "...so... yeah. We're all fine. I promise."

The words felt silly, but you said them anyway. Calypso had told you the sea talked. If it listened, it could be told the right things and sent back home to Penelope and Odysseus.

"We're eating," you added, tipping your chin toward the horizon like it had eyes. "Callias is being a menace and also taking his medicine. Peisistratus is... Peisistratus." Your mouth twitched. "Telemachus is safe. He's—" your throat pinched on the last word, "—he's alright. I'm alright. Tell them not to worry."

Another small wave slid in and curled around your calves, warmer this time, as if the sea nodded.

You breathed in salt, breathed out slow. You had stolen these minutes—slipped away when no one was looking, walked the narrow path until the green opened and the world turned to water and sky. There, it was simple: sit in the shallow wash, talk like a fool, leave steadier than you came.

A cover story helped. Calypso liked seaweed near the pots, liked the way it thickened broth and softened meat. So you brought a basket. Work first, prayer second—it didn't matter as long as you came back with something draped over your arm.

"Also," you added, because it tickled your ribs until you said it out loud, "if the waves see Hermes, tell him I said... thanks." You scrunched your nose at the water. "He'll act unbearable about it, but still."

A gull laughed overhead. Foam chased your toes and fell apart.

You stood, brushing sand from the backs of your legs. The basket at your side already sagged with a glossy tangle of kelp and narrow green ribbons that smelled like rain on iron. You shook the last drip from your fingers, set your feet in the firmer sand above the wash, and hitched the basket to your hip.

"Okay," you told the horizon, because ending on nothing felt wrong, "I'm going back. If you're really listening... let them know." A beat. "Please."

You turned, crossing the strip of crushed shells. The first steps felt heavier, like the water was reluctant to let you go. Past the high-tide line the sand turned grainy and hot, then gave way to the damp dark soil that marked the path into the trees. Shade took your shoulders. The sounds of the shore—hiss, hush, gull—slid behind you, replaced by leaf drip and the hush of insects.