The building was a massive block of concrete and red brick.

My cell was on the second tier of C-block.

It was eight feet wide and ten feet long.

My cellmate was an older man named Joseph who had been there for ten years.

He did not speak much, which suited me.

He spent his days reading Western novels and cataloging postage stamps.

I was assigned to the laundry.

It was hot, loud work.

The steam from the industrial washers made the air thick and hard to breathe.
My skin grew pale, and the calluses on my hands turned soft from the soapy water.

Every week, I wrote a letter to Claire.

I did not ask her to visit.

I did not ask her to write back.

I just told her about my day, about the books I was reading from the prison library.

I told her I was sorry.

The letters were returned to me, unopened, by the postal service.

*Return to Sender: Address Unknown.*

I kept them in a cardboard box under my bunk.

After two years, I stopped writing.