"Well, well, well. Look who remembers me.
You know, I’ve been collecting dust for twenty years while this house turned into the world’s worst frat party. These suitors loud, drunk, smelling like old wine and cheap oil think they’re worthy of me? Please. Half of them can’t even lift me off the rack without groaning like they’ve pulled a hamstring. And when they try to string me? Ha! It’s like watching toddlers wrestle a garden hose. Pathetic.
I remember the old days. Back when Odysseus strung me like it was nothing. Smooth, steady, confident. We made music together the string sang, the arrows flew, and people noticed. You never forget a grip like that.
Then he shows up. In rags, no less. The great king of Ithaca, undercover as a homeless guy. Everyone’s laughing, rolling their eyes, betting drachmas on how fast I’ll snap him in half. But the second his hand touches me? Oh yeah. That’s the guy. The real deal. My limbs hum, my string tightens, and suddenly I remember who I am.
And when do I sing again? Oh, you better believe it’s not just a twang. It’s an announcement: Party’s over, boys. Time to pay the bar tab."