Present Day; February 16, 2021

Police Officer Mark Salazar started his day just as he always did. He rose from their bed, walked up to his children's room, checked on them, and went straight to the bathroom.

And when he descended from the second floor, his wife was already in the kitchen, waiting for him to have his breakfast. The kids have risen, and his wife, as always, was too busy with their toddler, which usually caused her inability to have breakfast herself.

That morning, he kissed his wife goodbye, headed for his car, and drove to his workplace, ignorant of the emotional roller-coaster he and his co-workers were about to face.

The San Fernando Correctional Facility was a maximum-security prison that held a number of notorious gang leaders, drug lords, murderers, rapists, and just about any felon who had committed a grave crime. It was strategically located away from any subdivisions or local housing communities in the city. It was a four-story, double-building complex, connected by a narrow tunnel on the ground level. A twenty-five-foot wall with barbed wires surrounded the entire prison, accompanied by guard posts on at least every five meters of the entire vicinity, to keep its prisoners from escaping, making the prison a perfect place to hold even convicted influential officials. It was erected in 1980 and managed to survive due to the constant renovations done to it every time a new President came to office.

When PO1 Salazar timed in, he immediately received a playful punch on the side from Harold Sarmiento, a veteran officer of the San Fernando prison.

"Hey, bud, ready for another day?" Harold asked as he wedged his left arm on the young man's shoulder. "Yeah, just hope there are no riots today!" Salazar answered as he inspected the lunch box his wife prepared for him the night before. He knew what was coming when his senior eyed him with a grin plastered on his face. Mark could only shake his head.

"Well, would you look at that, a full-course meal eh!" His senior teased when Mark's lunch box opened to a well-cooked chicken afritada with rice, an apple, a side dish made up of steamed broccoli with butter, and a slice of pudding.

Mark smiled and then shoved his lunch box inside his locker. The teasing never ceased to amaze him.

"Alright, let's wake them up," an officer by the name of Brandy Carlow yelled, and soon, Mark and six other guards proceeded to the west wing of the building.

The bell rang. A familiar sound that every inmate learned to wait for during their waking hours. The clacking sound of police batons on metal bars echoed throughout the floor.

"Alright animals, rise and shine!" Harold yelled as he walked from one prison cell to another, banging his baton against the bars. Mark trudged behind him along with four others. On the second floor of the west wing was their post. They were responsible for the inmate's morning check and count. It was a tedious routine, but it held great importance.

A few heartbeats later, the cell doors automatically opened, and immediately, inmates in orange jumpsuits came out of each. They aligned themselves to their cell door as they paused for the most dreaded headcount. If one inmate happened to be missing, they would all suffer the consequences.

1... 2... 3... The count began. It filled the entire floor with rough voices and excited tones, thrilled to leave their small cell to join the rest of the inmates inside the prison food court. But when it came to inmate 247, the count stopped. Harold immediately called out to him but was answered with silence, followed by murmurs and long sighs from prisoners who were desperately awaiting their breakfast.

"247, come out, don't make me come in there and kick your ass old man," Harold yelled. But still, he was answered with silence. After a short-lived ruckus from the other inmates, the prisoner beside 247 stepped out of line and took a peek inside the cell.

"He is inside, hey 247!" The man yelled, but the body on the cot did not move an inch.

Frustrated, Harold nodded his head to acknowledge the other guards, who started to frown, throwing curious glances at each other, and then signalled Mark to follow him. As per protocol, the young guard took out his stun gun and baton and then walked behind his senior.

Cell 247 stood in stillness when Harold and Mark stepped inside. The familiar scent of urine and molds wafted by both officers' faces which forced them to clamp a hand over their noses. There was also a rusty scent that they couldn't identify. Frowning, with their baton raised above their head, they pulled off the blanket that covered the body on the bed. What greeted them was an open-eyed, mouth-agape face. His pale body and lack of chest movement did not need any more confirmation for life. The prisoner in cell 247 was dead.

After an hour, the inmates were ushered to the food court, and prisoner 247's body was immediately removed and sent to the morgue for autopsy. He was supposed to be just another body. Another casualty of nature. It was obvious that he died of natural causes. But despite that, the guards must do what had to be done.

Following a well-established rule, Mark and two other guards checked 247's cell for any foul play which could have caused the old man's death or hidden weapons, not to mention drugs. He was perhaps an old man and had always been a silent prisoner, but one can never be too careful.

Everything looked normal, except when one guard pulled up the bedding and found what appeared to be a big brown leather envelope. Mark immediately signalled for the guard to be careful. Pipe bombs were also common in prison cells. However, he found it intriguing how the prisoners even managed to create some. But then again, despite the tightness of security, San Fernando wasn't a perfect hell.

"Pick it up slowly," Mark commanded.

Bobbing his head, the guard bent down and carefully picked up the brown envelope, raised it in the air, and said, "Too light to be a weapon or a bomb."

"Drugs?" Mark asked. His two companions shrugged their shoulders indicating their lack of clue. So Mark took the envelope and opened it.

"What's inside?" His companions asked. Mark raised an eyebrow, and then answered, "Letters, tons of it." The surprise he felt was evident in his voice because it came out in a tone a bit higher than usual. Prisoners don't usually keep their letters, never in San Fernando correctional. It would be thrown by the inmates after it's read or used as toilet paper, he mused.

Just then, Harold appeared behind them with a frown on his face. "What in Mary's name are these?" he asked, as he grabbed the letters from Mark's hand.

"I don't remember 247 ever receiving any letter, hell, I don't remember him sending any," Harold mumbled as he skimmed through the numerous letters inside the envelope.

"Maria, who is Maria?" One guard questioned.

"Family perhaps," Mark answered after he took one of the letters. He glanced at his senior and tried to find confirmation in his face. But the deep lines that appeared on Harold's forehead gave Mark the obvious answer. He too, had no idea.

"Don't think so. This guy has been here for forty years, and he spent ten more in another prison before he was sent to San Fernando. He was one of the pioneering prisoners of this place. Not once had I seen him visited or received a phone call," Harold retorted.

The other guards joined in the conversation, questioning what they should do next. Mark looked to Harold, hoping for guidance, but his senior was equally puzzled. If the letter proved to be that of 247's relative, a ton of paperwork had to be done to release his body to them. A chore that none of them appreciated.

"We need to take this to the warden and see what he has to say," Officer Sarmiento suggested before they all left the confines of cell 247, their minds racing with questions, puzzled by the thought that perhaps, the most elusive and silent prisoner of San Fernando had something more to him than his solitary days in the prison library.