The sound of the sea, relentless and distant, echoed through the cold stone walls of Azkaban. Sirius lay on the hard floor of his cell, staring up at the dark, dripping ceiling, his breath coming in slow, shallow bursts. The oppressive chill of the dementors clung to the air, gnawing at his mind, tugging at the edges of his worst memories. He shivered, not from the cold, but from the familiar ache of despair creeping closer. His body was still, but his mind raced, wandering back to times when laughter had been a constant companion, when he had been free.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the monotony—the shuffle of footsteps, deliberate and out of place in the otherwise silent prison. Sirius stiffened, his heart pounding louder than it had in months. He hadn’t heard anything but the mindless echo of his own thoughts and the murmur of distant waves for what felt like an eternity. He pushed himself up, muscles aching from disuse, and strained his ears, every nerve alight with suspicion. Someone was coming.