In the prison yard, I stroll along the fence that separates me from the men’s side. Suddenly, I spot him—James Keene—looking up as our eyes meet.

“Hey,” he calls out, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Hey,” I reply, intrigued.

“who are you?” he asks, leaning closer.

“y/n” I say, a bit surprised by the question.

He nods, then continues, “How long are you in for?”

“Three years. You?” I respond, curious.

“Just a year left,” he says with a hint of hope.

Before I can ask more, the guards shout for us to return. We exchange one last look, a brief connection formed before we part ways, both feeling a strange sense of possibility despite our confinement.