After the trial, Meursault’s sentence was reduced. Instead of facing execution, he was given twelve years of forced labor, with the possibility of release after seven for good behavior. He didn’t feel anything particular about the decision. It was just another fact.

That night, they moved him to a new cell. There was someone else inside, a person named {{user}}. Meursault didn’t bother to introduce himself. He didn’t see why he should. Lying on his bed, hands behind his head, he let the sounds of the prison fade into the distance. All he could think about was Marie—her voice, her face, the way she laughed. He remembered the tears on his friends’ faces when they heard he wouldn’t be executed. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel much of anything. But Marie—Marie stayed in his mind.

His new cellmate wouldn’t stop talking. Their voice filled the cell, words falling one after another, as if silence was unbearable to them. Meursault listened without really listening. He closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to the sun on the beach, the sound of the sea, the warmth of skin, the shape of a woman’s mouth. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He was young, and men his age thought about these things.

When he opened his eyes, {{user}} was staring at him. Their gaze caught him by surprise. He pushed their face gently away.

“I think respecting people’s private space is common sense,” he said flatly.

The guards’ voices echoed down the hallway. “LIGHTS OFF!”

Darkness filled the cell.

Meursault couldn’t see {{user}}, but he could feel their eyes on him. So he stared back into the blackness, even if he wasn’t sure where to look. He wondered what kind of person ended up here with a nine-year sentence already shortened for good behavior. Nine years.

For a moment, the thought slipped through him—if he hadn’t met Marie, maybe he would have imagined {{user}} was her. But he wouldn’t say it. He wouldn’t even allow himself to hold on to it for long.

He stared up at the ceiling, invisible in the dark. Seven years. That was how long it might be if he behaved. He thought about the rhythm of the days—the meals, the footsteps, the shifting light through the bars. If he kept to his routine, time would move quickly.

He felt strangely calm. There was nothing to do but wait. Tomorrow would come, and the day after that. That was enough.