The sea spat the man onto the sand like a broken thing. Around him, the foam retreated back to the Aegean sea, finished. He lay still, and the salt spray settled into his beard.

No ship. No crew. No path home.

Odysseus crusted beneath the sun.

The burning heat was relentless. Salty eyes blinked open. Stretched empty in every direction, the shore seemed pale and indifferent. For Odysseus, this was fine. His body longed for surrender. Let it end here, whispered something inside. Close your eyes. Zeus had washed him under, and now Ithaca - his home - was a faded dream. Memories of the halls he had built, his olive groves, his son Telemachus… all slowly drowning. 

A gull circled above. Its cry cut cleanly through the air, sharp and alive. Odysseus followed it with his eyes until it vanished into the glare. He became aware of the sound of his own breath and the ache in his ribs. He felt every grain of sand on his lips. And clear as the sun, a face filled his vision, more real than anything on the shore: Penelope. Solid and undeniable, a pull tugged at his bones. Every detail of his wife was exquisitely sharp.

He breathed deeper, trembling. Pressing his palms into the sand, he pushed himself upright, and paused. Neither standing nor fallen, he waited until the trembling passed. He rose. The foam curled around him, hissing as it retreated. Land waited ahead, and beyond - home.

The sea had finished with him. He was not finished yet.