In the northern reaches of Eldridge County, a maximum-security prison built half a century ago. Mira Alden, a 28-year-old former veterinary student, had been sentenced to twelve years for a crime she still claimed she didn’t commit — poisoning a wealthy client’s prized racing dog.
Her conviction was surrounded by media frenzy, betrayal, and silence from those who once called themselves her friends. Days passed in silence. Nights crept by like shadows afraid to move.
Until the tapping started.
At first, Mira thought it was rats. But the rhythm was too deliberate — a knock, a pause, a double tap. She froze, heart racing. Then came a whisper.
“Hey… anyone there?”
Her mouth went dry. Slowly, she crouched near the vent and whispered back. “Who are you?”
A pause. Then: “Call me Jace.”
He was on the other side of the solitary wing, in a cell almost identical to hers. Jace had been in and out of Graystone for years — mostly for theft, a few fights.
What started as accidental contact became daily ritual. They talked about their lives before prison — her dreams of opening a clinic, his love for classic novels. They invented games, shared stories, and over weeks, they became more than just voices in the dark.
Months passed. Mira’s mental fog began to lift. She started journaling again on scraps of toilet paper, drawing sketches of animals on her cell wall using tea grounds and a toothbrush.
Then one night, everything changed.
Jace whispered something unusual. “I need to give you something… tomorrow. Through the vent. It’s important.”
“What is it?” she asked, heart pounding.
“You’ll see.”
True to his word, the next day she heard the quiet rustle through the duct — something being pushed, tied to a string. She reached in, careful not to make noise. Wrapped in plastic and cloth was a small tube — like those used in medical clinics — sealed tightly. She didn’t understand at first.
“Jace… what is this?”
He whispered, “It’s part of me. So we can make something that lasts beyond this place.”
