The dim glow of the cell's single flickering light cast long shadows on the cracked concrete walls.
Mikey stood a few steps away from the rusted bars, his breath steady, eyes fixed on his future self. The older version of him was sitting upright on the bottom bunk, legs dangling over the edge but unmoving, as though his body were anchored by the weight of the moment.
The silence lingered, thick and unmoving.
Then—
Ahem.
A slow, rasping throat-clear, like sandpaper dragged gently across stone, rolled through the air and settled in the room's stillness.
Mikey's future self didn't stir, didn't even look his way. Instead, his right hand lifted, fingers brushing the side of his head with a lazy, absentminded tap, as though chasing a thought that refused to land.
"Okay..." the older Mikey finally muttered, his voice low, almost hesitant, like the slow turning of a page not meant to be read aloud.
"Ehm… I guess the least I can do is help you out with your confusion..."
