Philip sat in chains, panting, sweat on his brow. He stared at the wall with wide, haunted eyes. For the first time in his life… he was afraid. He had never wanted to die.
Not before his child has accepted him. Not before they had spent time together, not before he had walked her down the aisle and held his grandchildren. He couldn't die, not yet, and this person had no right to kill him, no, they don't, he tries to convince himself.
The air was cold. Sterile. The smell of bleach clung to the walls, mixing with the heavy silence.
Mara sat on one side of the thick glass barrier, the phone to her ear, trembling slightly in her hand. Across from her, Philip sat chained, dressed in orange, his eyes hollow but still burning with defiance.
He looked older. Tired. But not repentant. Mara swallowed hard and brought the phone to her ear.
