Penelope sat on the cold throne, her fingers gripping its arms as the suitors approached one by one. Their eyes gleamed with greed, seeking her hand for power, not love. Her heart pounded, not from fear, but from the weight of waiting—years of hope and doubt. She smiled politely, but her mind was elsewhere, wondering if Odysseus was still out there, fighting to return. She had to endure, for herself, for her son, and for him. "None of you are him," she thought, heart aching in silence.