Mark was about to read the third letter when the warden signaled for him to stop.

"You're both married men, aren't you?"

Both guards stared at the warden with a frown, then hesitantly said, "Yes." Wondering where the man was getting to.

Protacio averted their eyes and mused as he gazed at the obvious darkening of the sky. "My wife died a few years ago. If one would ask me what I know of her, I might say a few things. But if one would ask me, how well do I know her? I doubt if I could give a proper answer."

There was a sad undertone to his voice, and that caused Mark to look at his senior, Harold, with a questioning look.

Harold, already reaching his limit, shook his head, cleared his throat and then scoffed. "Why are you telling us this? Why are you suddenly being all mushy and sugary? This ain't a tea party. There are no cupcakes here. I don't need to hear any of these."

The warden moved his gaze towards him, and without breaking eye contact, he shook his head and replied, "Prisoner 247, as I informed you hours back, was a person that lingered in my head for many years. This was not the first time I've heard of the name Maria."

Protacio took another cigar then puffed a few before he added, "That old man, he used to give out a bright smile but there was a deep sadness in his eyes. He had spoken to me, many a time. I never got to understand what he wanted to say because he would distort our talks in a flurry of vague statements. That's probably the reason why his case bothered me so much."

Harold let out a chuckle. It sounded like mockery to the warden's words. It made Mark uncomfortable. The last thing he needed at that moment was to become a referee between his senior and the warden.

Protacio couldn't help but release a chuckle in response. He shook his head again, then later added, "His words saved my life, my kids, and my heart."

Upon his last statement, Harold and Mark took a sudden interest in him. Keeping a frown on his face, Mark questioned, "What exactly did he tell you?"

Their warden sighed after he blew a cloud of smoke. "Nothing much, except that Maria was happy and she was safe."

"Well, that would explain why he killed her husband," Harold interrupted.

Protacio shook his head, took another drag from his cigar as he eyed Mark, and then gestured for him to continue reading. The Warden had more to say but went against his own need to communicate his thoughts further. It was difficult. Man wasn't supposed to bear their heart and soul, or where they?

Mark was about to read the first words of the letter but got distracted when his phone unexpectedly rang. He initially ignored it and planned to continue ignoring it as he motioned to proceed with his endeavour. However, the warden loudly cleared his throat as if calling his attention. So, he lifted his gaze from the paper he was clutching and looked the warden in the eye. "Answer it. It might be important."

With a bob of his head, Mark took out his phone from his pocket. As he gazed at a screen, a frown marred his forehead.

"Well," the warden asked, curiosity etched on his face.

The young guard only smiled, bowed his head and then answered, "It's just my wife," as he cancelled the call.

The warden couldn't help but sigh once more. There was a disapproving look on his face, but he decided against voicing his thoughts. "Fine, continue with the letter," he murmured between puffs of smoke.

Mark was about to begin reading again when his phone rang once more. His forehead contorted in a frown, annoyance written all over his face. Again, he took out his phone, cancelled the call, and then turned it off.

Palpable silence ensured after that. Both older men had a narrative filled with scolding ready at the tip of their tongues, but they refused to come out.

A minute, and then two. The silence was starting to swallow them.
However, a loud sound from the warden clearing his throat broke it, followed by him abandoning his chair, allowing a creaking sound to engulf the room. The old man walked towards his office window and then released a sigh. He stood there in deep contemplation and then turned to Mark, smiled, and said "Let's end this here. We will continue reading after an hour. You better take that call lad. Who knows, your wife could probably be dying on a hospital bed right now." There was sadness in the way he said the words which was not missed by his companions.

Protacio kept his eyes on them, very much aware that they had questions lingering on the back of their heads, but he didn't offer reprieve to their silent inquiry. Instead, he shifted his gaze back towards the window and, after a second, said, "Leave."

The sudden drop of tone in his voice was not missed by the two guards inside his office. Even the solemn look that suddenly drowned his previously glinting eyes did not manage to escape Harold's scrutinizing gaze.

The two guards felt uneasy but decided not to pry. They left their warden's room and headed straight for the guard's lounge area. There they drank water, sat on a wooden chair, and began to eat the snacks reserved for them.

***

Harold ran his hand over his face and leaned back on the chair's backrest. Remembering what the warden told them, he immediately swallowed the food inside his mouth, stared at Mark, and said, "You're supposed to call your wife, right?"

"I don't think I have to. Besides, she may..."

"Call your wife, lad; it might be important," Harold interrupted as he took a bite off of his chocolate-coated doughnut.

Mark grunted in disapproval but eventually pulled out his phone. He couldn't think of a reason for his wife to be calling him at this hour. Nonetheless, he brought the phone to life and dialled his wife's number.

The person on the other line did not sound frantic or held a tone of urgency when they answered. It sounded happy and interlaced with the crying of their toddler. "What is it, Jasmine?" Mark questioned.

The woman on the other line laughed sweetly and then answered, "Oh, it's nothing; I just called to ask what time you will be coming home."

Mark scoffed, then sighed. "I'm at work, Jasmine; besides, you know what time I'll come home. It's the same time as always. When work is done." Mark answered, his voice filled with irritation.

Harold had no intention of listening in on the conversation, but having been seated right across the young guard made it impossible. He watched how Mark's forehead folded fifty ways when he answered his wife. It was bitter, filled with annoyance. The call lasted for about three minutes before his junior ended the conversation and shoved the phone inside his pocket.

The veteran guard was not naive, he understood that it was wrong of Mark to snap at his wife. But Harold had no good words to spare because what Mark did was an act that he, too, was quite familiar with. Heck, it was an everyday thing. It happened everywhere in their building. Every man in their midst was privy to such encounters.

Sometimes Harold couldn't help but wonder, were they all wired the same? All of them? Each man in the building seemed to have the same response each time. Yeah, they were ungrateful bastards, weren't they? But heck, that's just how it was with them.

Five more minutes went by and the two guards finally had their fill.

"Let's get back to the warden and get this letter over with," Harold finally suggested as he shoved the last bite of his doughnut inside his mouth.

***

Meanwhile, in the East Wing of the San Fernando Correctional. Martin, a convict who had been imprisoned for nearly a decade began to taunt his inmates with words of horror about the rapes he had committed in the past. The yelling of some prisoners varied from, "We don't want to hear it," and "Yeah, give us more!"

The guards on duty, Sheldon and Mason, could only shake their heads, while the third guard, Samson, screamed, "Shut up! You animals, that's the reason you're all here. Put a plug on it."

An inmate answered him with, "I bet your mama would taste just as great!" followed by a roar of laughter.

Samson was about to walk toward the inmate who gave the insult, but the other guards held him back.

***

Back in the west wing, Harold and Mark started to ascend the stairs leading to the warden's office. There was a heavy silence that hung in the air, so Harold bumped his arm onto his junior to coax some sort of interaction. However, when Mark turned to face him, there was pure annoyance in the young guard's face.

"What got under your pants lad?"

Mark didn't give him a reply. So Harold gave up and continued to tackle every step of the staircase.

***

Warden Protacio kept his eyes on the pile of letters on his desk. Inmate 247, there was truly something about his case. The old man mentioned writing a journal that would contain the truth behind it all. Could the letters be what he was talking about? Protacio couldn't blame Harold for snapping about the letter's worth, but the warden needed to know the truth. Especially after 247's advice gave Protacio an ample amount of time with his wife before she died in a hospital bed.

Pick up the call. How simple were the words and yet their impact was immeasurable?

If he had failed to pick up that call, what would have greeted him at home were lost and crying kids whose mother died alone in an emergency room after a car crash.

Protacio closed his eyes as he kept taking deep drags of smoke from his cigar. When his wife lay wounded and covered in blood on a cheap-looking bed, along with strangers who cried and yelled for their loved ones. He realized that his time with her had finally come to an end.

The window he got to whisper how much he truly loved her was bleak, but she heard it. The words I love you were something his wife would hear, no matter how low a whisper it was, or how loud he threw them out his mouth. Because they were words that she seldom heard from him. He supposed she must have always been waiting for them that even in the lowest of tones, she heard them. Oh, she heard them clearly.

Time. He wasted so much time. If he could re-live it all over again. He would try to listen more when she spoke of things about her past, or her dreams and hobbies. If he had, maybe he could have given her a proper eulogy. Instead, he gave her a pathetic excuse of made-up words. One that was concocted by his sister-in-law.

How well did he know his wife? Protacio gazed at the letters again. If he were asked to write a letter about the woman he loved, would he be able to say the things 247 said? Did he have the knowledge and clarity of who his wife was, just as 247 knew his Maria? He doubted it. He knew her, but probably, never skin deep. After gazing at the letters, Protacio deduced one thing. He failed the woman he loved.

A few minutes later, Mark and Harold knocked softly on the warden's office. Unlike earlier, Melinda was not present to announce them. The woman went for her afternoon break.

"Come in," Protacio yelled from the inside. So, the two guards let themselves in, gave their greetings to the warden, and took their seats.