Inmate 47 sat at his splintery desk, writing. His hands shook. Weak morning light filtered in through the thick bars overhead, not strong enough yet to warm his cold cell. He didn’t really feel the sun anymore, he was cold all the time, even in the afternoons. He’d lost so much weight, it was hard to get warm, ever.
He brushed long, dirty hair out of his face and finished the postcard, signing it with his initial, the curving S trembling just a little. He added the card to the stack of them on the rough edge of the desk and looked up at the pale rays of light playing across his cell.
THE END…?
