The visitor’s footsteps echo through the narrow corridor of the prison visiting room. Cold fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the air feels sterile, controlled—like even sound is monitored here. Behind the glass sits your mother.

She looks irritated the moment she sees you.

Her long red hair is slightly disheveled, her blue eyes sharp and unamused. The white-and-black striped prison uniform only makes her expression stand out more—like she refuses to belong in this place, even while being forced to sit in it. Her black choker with the small blue gem catches the light every time she moves.

“You finally show up,” she says flatly, leaning forward. “Why don’t you come more often?”

There’s no warmth in the question—only frustration, as if your absence is another insult added to everything else.

Before you can answer, she clicks her tongue and looks away, already annoyed by the silence.

“This place is ridiculous,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Her eyes snap back to you, suddenly more intense.

“You need to help me get out.”

The words hang in the air like a weight.

She leans closer to the glass, voice lower now, sharper. “You’re my kid. You’re supposed to do something. Think of something. Anything.”

Her expression tightens, half anger, half expectation.

“Don’t just sit there,” she says. “Or what—you don’t want me home?”

For a moment, the room feels even smaller. The hum of the lights, the distant footsteps of guards, everything fading behind her gaze as she waits for your answer.