01/02/2026
before he died... Cell No. 47 was so quiet that the ticking of the clock could be heard. On the rusty iron bed, the prisoner sat hunched over, the ceiling light shining on his haggard face and eyes that had forgotten how to dream. Twenty years. Twenty years of only regret and gray walls. The iron door opened, the hinges creaking coldly. High heels clicked dryly on the tile floor — it was not the prison guard, but a young policewoman, her face not as cold as usual. She stopped, looked at him for a long time, then said softly: “You have the right to one last wish.” The prisoner raised his head. In the eyes that had witnessed so much blood and darkness, a faint light suddenly shone. He softly replied, his voice trembling: “I don’t need food, ci******es, or music. Just… Continuation in the first comment under the picture See less
