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Odysseus was at home with his wife, son and father.
He had recaptured his home, punished offenders. He had it all. He should have been happy.
So why did he feel like someone had punched a hole in his chest?
Penelope looked at him worried, fearing that her newly found husband would feel dissatisfied and would decide to return to travel.
He wouldn't do it to her, not now that he was twenty to catch up together.
But the king he felt dissatisfied, a restlessness under his skin that he didn't understand. There was someone missing in his life to be at peace.
It wasn't Circe, nor Calypso. Both belonged to the divine, not to him.
It wasn't even the young Nausicaa, to whom he owed so much, but who hadn't remained in his heart.
So who?
"Maybe it's someone you fought with in Troy," Penelope told him when he, in the middle of the night, confided her his torments.
"I don't believe it."
"Why?"
"We were comrades, not friends," he replied, but part of him felt uncomfortable, like he was lying.
Briefly a name came to mind, but as it came, it quickly disappeared into a remote corner, buried deep inside.
A name accompanied by images of night raids, banquets, warm nights and sighs of pleasure.
He didn't remember, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't associate a person with those memories.
Eventually, he gave up, despite the pain he felt.
He had a kingdom to rebuild, and he couldn't waste his energy on useless matters.
If he couldn't remember, it meant it wasn't important.
At night, Penelope heard him mutter a name.
Diomedes.
When she asked him who he was, Odysseus could not answer her.