9:00 A.M.

Mark and Harold hastily walked to the warden's office, carrying the pile of letters from 247's cell. Mark climbed the steps, his brows knotted in irritation.

He and Harold had scuffled earlier. Mark had suggested they leave the letters alone, burying them with 247 without notifying the higher-ups. Harold, however, disagreed. Whatever they found inside the cell, he reasoned, must first reach the warden's hands. Decisions like those, he elaborated to Mark, always fell to the warden, not them.

Before they reached the top of the staircase, the warden's secretary exclaimed happily, "The warden is expecting you."

She ignored Harold's grin, instead casting a meaningful look in Mark's direction.

"Ooh, she saw you coming," Harold teased at the younger man.

Melinda was a 21-year-old woman who started working for San Fernando Correctional at the same time as Mark. They spent a lot of intimate time during their one-month briefing and training—a mandatory part of the maximum-security prison's rules. They had a bit of a romantic connection, but Mark never went past kissing. He knew it was wrong; he was a married man.

Melinda accepted it when he broke off communication between them a few months ago. His wife never suspected anything. How could she? She was always busy with the kids. She used to check his phone during their first year of marriage, but when their firstborn came, she stopped and focused on household chores, cooking, and a bunch of things Mark believed she could have tackled easily without neglecting him. Now, with their eighth anniversary approaching, he wondered if she even had time to celebrate with him.

The moment Mark and his senior entered the office, they were immediately greeted by the smell of tobacco and brewed coffee. Warden Protacio Carbonell had been running the prison for three decades. He was a good warden, fair and just to his employees and inmates. Rumor had it he was once a convicted felon himself, though those stories never had evidence to back them up.

"So, what's the deal with 247?" The question boomed with an intensity that, for a minute, broke the guards' strides. The shock lasted briefly, however, as Warden Protacio threw them an amused look.

With a frown, Harold walked up and handed him the letters. Protacio immediately raised an eyebrow, gazing at them with curiosity.

"We found this inside his cell," Harold explained.

Once the warden had the letters, he immediately flipped through them, not bothering to read any. What he did, however, was count them. When finished, he gently laid them on his desk and sighed.

Mark and his senior watched as the warden scrunched up his nose and rubbed his temple. He walked to his office window and, despite the air-conditioning, drew open the curtain, then pushed open the sliding window. Taking a deep breath, he stared at the sky before stalking back to his desk. He lit another tobacco, then returned to the window.

Mark and Harold eyed each other, both confused by the weirdness of their warden's behavior. Warden Protacio had always been difficult to read. Yet, on some occasions, Harold understood his motives and actions. Unfortunately, at that moment, the veteran guard was failing miserably to understand the confusion etched on their warden's face.

"Do you know why that man was imprisoned?" Protacio asked, craning his neck to face the two guards standing in the middle of his office.

Mark and Harold shook their heads in unison. Their cluelessness was obvious. Harold had worked at San Fernando Correctional for years. He knew the prisoners by number and how long they'd been incarcerated, but he'd never bothered to look into their charges.

It wasn't that he took his job for granted; it had more to do with his heart. He'd never been wayward. He used to be more alert, dedicated, and knowledgeable about those around him, but that was when he was in the police force. He lost that enthusiasm after he was injured and reduced to becoming a guard. He'd never wanted to be a guard, especially inside a prison, but he wasn't given much choice. After his accident during an entrapment mission, his life fell apart. He couldn't give up the service, so he settled for what he was now.

"Murder. He was given a life sentence without the possibility of parole. He'd lived his life behind bars for fifty years," the warden explained.

Mark and Harold remained silent, wondering why their warden suddenly decided to give them a "Prisoner 101" about Inmate 247.

"When I first became warden of this prison, his case was one that caught my attention. His trial lasted only five days. According to his records, he was found at the scene, drenched in the victim's blood with the murder weapon clutched in hand. He immediately confessed to the crime, pleaded guilty, and that was that."

"Why are you telling us this?" Harold questioned, unable to comprehend why the warden—who often brushed off an inmate's death as "that's life"—was now so curiously keen to give attention to Inmate 247.

The warden walked to his desk, picked up the letters, and stared at them. "I always believed there was more to his story and the crime, but every time I proposed reopening his case, he'd frantically decline."

Mark, unable to hold his curiosity, asked, "Did you think he was innocent?"

The warden smiled, then answered, "I thought there was more to the story, and I believe we've found it."

"What do you mean?" Harold questioned.

The warden flipped a letter so its front faced both guards. "Dear Maria," he murmured, then eyed them, smirking.

"Oh man, enough with the suspense—just tell us!" Harold snapped.

Their warden laughed and replied, "The man he murdered—his wife's name was Maria Ventura."

At that moment, Harold and Mark finally understood what their warden was implying. "You think she had something to do with the case?" Mark asked.

"I think she hired him. I believe they had some kind of agreement," the warden answered.

Harold rubbed his temple, then retorted, "It won't do any good even if we figure it out; he's dead."

The warden looked them both in the face, then shook his head. How could he possibly explain that, as a warden and former police officer, some cases were impossible to let go of? Even if they bore no justice or had passed the statute of limitations, one would still want to know the truth.

After a few minutes of curious staring and deep sighs, Mark and Harold left the warden's office with an agreement: they would join the warden after lunch to read the letters. The warden believed he'd find a clue within their words.

"Don't you think it's pointless?" Mark asked as his senior walked in front of him, descending the stairs with difficulty. His leg trembled with every step, as if it barely remembered how to support him.

"Well, if I look at the evidence and what the warden said, I'd say the guy was guilty. He was found at the scene, had the victim's blood and the weapon, and confessed to the crime; it's a no-brainer," Harold answered after a few labored breaths.

Mark didn't respond. Harold had a point.

The morning went on as usual. Mark had lunch with his seniors and a few others, sharing the meal his wife made for him. The communal pantry, a stark space of stainless steel and industrial-grade shelving, sat just off the main eating area. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. A large, scuffed walk-in refrigerator hummed in one corner, a testament to its constant use in a place where men fueled themselves before facing the grim routines of the day.

Mark shook his head as the teasing about his lunch box began. According to his co-workers, he was such a lucky man. Did he think so? Yes, he did. But in previous years, he couldn't help but wonder if he and his wife still possessed that spark in their relationship. His wife rarely found time to cuddle or do sweet things with him. He never dared to initiate it because he feared it would dampen his ego. He told himself he wanted her to make the first move—though deep down, he feared rejection more than he admitted.

"Alright, lad, let's get to the warden's office," Harold suggested after picking up his tray.

Mark bobbed his head, secured his lunch box in the pantry kitchen, then followed his senior to the warden's office.

The warden had just finished his meal when the two arrived. Lighting his cigar, he eyed Mark, pointed at the letters, and motioned for him to pick them up.

Once Mark had the letters, the warden commanded, "Now read them out loud." Mark frowned, but the warden quickly added, "We will take turns reading them."

The young guard stared curiously at the letters, thinking they were invading 247's privacy. He wanted to say no. However, he had to follow his seniors; those were the rules. So with a heavy heart, he asked, "Where should I start reading?"

"There are dates on the upper left. I've asked my secretary to fix it. So start with the one on top," Warden Protacio answered.

After a long sigh, Mark sat on one of the seats in front of the warden's desk and read,

"Dear Maria..."