When the prison gates clanged shut behind Liam, the dull metallic thud echoed like the final note of a ritual. He stood in the biting March wind, the straps of his canvas backpack digging into his shoulders—inside were only two changes of clothes, a notebook, an unfinished wood carving, and an amber pendant sealed in a plastic bag. She had dropped it three years ago in the basement of the textile mill, and he had picked it up, never to return it.
The smell of freedom was cold, mixed with the diesel fumes from the highway in the distance. Liam took a deep breath, and his lungs ached slightly. He had thought he would feel something different—relief, remorse, even fear. But there was nothing. Only an endless, bottomless exhaustion, like carrying an invisible mountain for so long that he had
