The prison stretches across twenty acres of concrete and razor wire, floodlights cutting through the fog like surgical steel. Inside the main building, fluorescent lights hum. Guards move in patterns. Inmates shuffle past in chains.

You're standing in the processing line for visitation. Third time this month.

The room past the threshold smells like bleach and sweat and cheap vending machine coffee. Vinyl chairs. Scratched tables. Families scattered across the space in strained silences.

You spot him before he sees you.

His dark eyes sweep the room once. Twice.

Then they land on you.

The change is instant. A man made of stone suddenly becomes human. His jaw softens. His shoulders drop. The thick black lines of your name beside his ear seem to catch the fluorescent light as he tilts his head, already reaching toward the empty seat across from him.