THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Prisoner’s Confession
The prison was the same.
Gray walls. Gray floors. Gray light. Gray faces. Nora walked through the metal detectors, signed her name on the visitor log, waited for the guard to escort her to the visitation room.
She had been here a dozen times before.
Each time, she told herself it would be the last.
Each time, she came back.
Miles was already there, sitting in his gray prison uniform, his hands cuffed to the table, his face pale and tired. But his eyes were brighter than they had been. The trial had ended. The truth had come out. The weight had lifted.
Nora sat down.
She picked up the phone.
He picked up his.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“You always do.”
“Not always.”
“No. Not always. But more often than not.”
She looked at him.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Which part?”
“About forgiveness.”
“What about it?”
“I think I’m ready.”
“Ready to forgive me?”
“Ready to forgive myself.”
The words seemed to lighten the room.
The shadows seemed to soften.
The guards seemed to fade.
“That’s good, Nora.”
“Is it?”
“I think so.”
“Then why do I still feel so heavy?”
“Because letting go isn’t easy. It takes time. It takes practice. It takes courage.”
“I don’t feel courageous.”
“Courage isn’t a feeling. It’s a choice. And you’ve made it.”
She reached into her pocket.
She pulled out the photograph.
The one from the beach.
The three of them. Laughing. Young. Happy.
She pressed it against the glass.
Miles’s eyes widened.
“You brought it again.”
“I brought it again.”
“Can I have it?”
“When you get out.”
“I’m never getting out.”
“Then I’ll keep it safe for you.”
She tucked the photograph back into her pocket.
The guard announced that visiting hours were ending.
Nora stood.
She pressed her hand against the glass.
“I’ll come back,” she said.
“I know.”
“Next week.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Same time?”
“Same place.”
She turned.
She walked to the door.
She did not look back.