Three days after Anna Raya sealed her last letter, she stood in front of the jailhouse door for the fourth morning in a row — same faded dress, same battered shoes, same paper slip in her hand that said Visitor's Request.
Behind her, Amie tugged at her skirt, too small to understand all the words but old enough to feel the sharp edge of them in her mother's voice when the sheriff's deputy turned her away.
Sheriff Hammond leaned against the doorframe, chewing a toothpick, his badge dull in the morning sun. He flicked his eyes over Anna, over Amie, then back to the paper.
"You know what this says?" he asked, his grin a thin crack in his wide face.
Anna's chin lifted. "It says I got a right to see my son."
Hammond spat the toothpick out, the dry wood hitting the dust. "It says you got a request. Don't mean it's approved."
Anna's hands tightened around Amie's shoulders. "He's fourteen, Sheriff. He's a boy."
"Then he best start talkin' like a man, so we can be done with this," Hammond snapped. He turned back toward the door. "No visit today, ma'am—"
But behind him, Deputy Croft stepped forward. He cleared his throat, eyes on the ground. "Sheriff," he said, voice low but firm. "Let the boy see his mama. Might make him… remember better."
Hammond stared at Croft long enough for the air to turn heavy between them. Then he shrugged, spit in the dirt, and waved Anna forward like she was an annoyance he'd swat away when he got bored.
"You got ten minutes. Don't waste 'em."
---
They led her through the narrow corridor that smelled of sweat and metal. Amie clung to her hand but stopped at the barred door when Croft shook his head.
"Just you," he said gently. He gave Amie a piece of peppermint from his pocket. It wasn't enough to fix anything, but it was something.
Inside, the visiting room was a box of cold cement. A pane of cloudy glass split it in two, a metal grate beneath for voices to slip through.
Ikrist sat on the other side, too small for the wooden chair. His hair was mussed, his eyes rimmed with sleepless nights. But when he saw his mother, his shoulders dropped, his chin quivered, and for the first time in days, the fear on his face cracked open to let something else through — relief.
"Mama!" he breathed.
Anna pressed her palm flat to the glass. Ikrist did the same on his side. The glass was cold — too cold for what she needed to give him.
"Hey baby," she whispered. "You holdin' on?"
Ikrist nodded, though tears trembled on his lashes. "When you takin' me home?" he asked. His voice was so soft it nearly broke her.
Anna swallowed hard, forcing steel into her spine. "Soon, baby. Mama's writin' letters. Daddy's talkin' to everyone. We gonna get you out of here, you hear?"
Ikrist blinked. "Sheriff says I gotta say I did it. Says then they'll let me go."
Anna's palm hit the glass. "No. Don't you say nothin' that ain't true. You look at me, Ikrist Raya."
His eyes met hers — big, brown, searching for answers she didn't have but would never stop giving.
"You hold tight to the truth, you hear? Even when they shout. Even when they lie. That truth's all you got, baby. It's all we got."
Ikrist nodded, though his lip trembled. "Mama," he whispered, "I wanna come home. I don't like the dark. It's so quiet when they turn the lights off. I can't hear you hummin'."
Anna pressed her forehead to the glass. If the wall could've fallen away, she'd have wrapped him up in her arms, hidden him in her apron pocket and carried him right through the bars and the sheriff's sneer. But the glass stayed cold and solid.
"Close your eyes when it's dark," she whispered. "Pretend you hear me. I'm hummin' every night. I'm right there, right here." She tapped her heart. Here.
Croft's voice broke through the moment: "Time's up, ma'am."
Anna leaned back, eyes locked on her boy. "I'm comin' back tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. You don't forget that."
Ikrist nodded. He pressed his palm harder to the glass, wishing it would melt under his hand. "I love you, Mama."
"I love you more, Krist." Her voice cracked. "So much more."
Croft's boots shuffled. He opened the door. Anna stepped backward, her heart screaming to stay pressed to that glass forever.
As she stepped out into the hallway, Amie ran to her, peppermint sticky in her fist. Anna scooped her up, breathing in the sweet warmth of her smallest child — trying to hold the pieces of her heart together long enough to send them back through the next letter, the next knock on a door, the next plea for someone — anyone — to listen.