Page 28 of These Tears

It’ll arrive sad, squashed and wrapped in more plastic than a bag of narcotics.

Then comes the part that makes my knees shudder – a visit without the chains. If I’m confident enough, Rebecca notes.

Not in the visitor’s room, either. She offers me a family room under CCTV or the yard for family visits. She phrases it carefully, adding that Elias’ behaviour record is clean and the latest risk assessment supports relaxing the restrictions.

Or… something like that. I’m surprised I haven’t learnt legalese after this much time spent with Elias.

His behaviour is commendable, at any rate. So why does my mind give me only one image – him slouched and distant, shackled to the floor?

I agree to everything Rebecca offers, of course. But unease catches up when the adrenaline drains.

Because however much Crane and I have relaxed around each other, my mind keeps replaying the facts: the file. The charge. Those large, scarred knuckles. Corded, strong arms – a man who has used them to break more than bread.

And this time, he won’t be tethered to the floor.

I remind myself risk assessments aren’t disregarded lightly. That he’s been compliant. That they wouldn’t offer this if he so much as flinched wrong in custody.

Still.

The truth burns in my mind.

Several days later, I wonder whether I’m walking into prison as comfort… or an unwitting reminder of everything he does not have.

And possibly might never have.

The heavy door buzzes, then clicks open, and I step into the small outdoor visits yard – though the term feels like a cruel euphemism here. It’s not much more than a slab of cracked concrete, a laughable patch of grass, all framed by high brick walls and wire netting between them. A battered wooden bench sits in the middle, flanked by a bolted-down picnic table and a wall-mounted security camera whose red light never winks.

I force my attention away from the hard reality and turn my face towards the sun instead – then the warm stone and dry sweetness of elderflower that make this place easier to bear.

At least that much of the world reaches him in this hellhole.

Small victories.

A single guard stands in the shade, just beside the entrance. Arms crossed, gaze keen, he keeps to his post beneath the awning – far enough to give us the illusion of privacy, close enough to remind us that every word still carries. We nod acknowledgements to each other as I step fully out.

At the far end of the yard, Elias stands alone beneath the soft drape of a willow tree. The branches move gently in the breeze, the silver-green tips trailing like fingers over the edge of the wall.

He’s perfectly still, looking up into the leaves as if they’re saying something only he can hear.

Even from this distance, he looks… different.

My gait slows when I notice the main detail – his beard’s gone.

The sight nearly stops me cold.

Clean-shaven, he looks years younger. More defined.

His jaw is hard bone and dark shadow, the cleft of his chin catching the sunlight as he tilts his head upwards to look at a bird landing atop a branch. There’s nothing to soften him now, no scruff to blur the lines of that face.

It’s almost like seeing him unmasked.

A smile threatens to break out on me as my gaze follows the way his curls fall wild around his ears. They’ve grown out – more chaotic waves now than curls.

He looks down.

His eyes meet mine.

For one stupefied heartbeat, I’m not sure whether my ribs can contain my lungs. I don’t know what to do with the jolt that rushes through me. My gaze drops to his mouth, then darts back to his eyes.