Hatred in the Heart

The iron gate slammed behind me with a heavy clang, making my eardrums ring. Five years—finally, I breathed air outside those walls. The sunlight was blinding, and I instinctively squinted. A black car was parked in the distance; its window slowly rolled down, revealing a stranger's face. "Are you Ms. Nola Jones?" The man's voice was calm and flat. I nodded, clutching the worn cloth bundle tightly in my hand. That cloth bundle was painstakingly stitched by me, thread by thread, during my time in prison; its corners were frayed, yet it held all my hopes for freedom. "Alex Shaw sent me to pick you up." He said, pushing open the car door. I froze in place, my heart seized by an icy grip. Alex Shaw—I thought that name had long since rotted away in a prison cell. Five years locked up—I survived on nothing but hatred for him. So why is he suddenly showing up now? "What else does he want?" My voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping. My throat felt like it had been rubbed raw by sandpaper; every word stung with pain. The man said nothing. Instead, he pulled a black wooden box from the back seat and slid it across to me. The wooden box was smooth, engraved with simple patterns, yet it emitted an eerie, unexplainable chill. "What is this?" I stepped back, eyes locked warily on him. My gut screamed that whatever was inside wasn't good. "It's the ashes of your brother, Simon Jones." A surge hit my head like something inside exploded. The world spun; sunlight warped; his face blurred beyond recognition. "What did you say?" I lunged at him, grabbing his arm, my nails nearly tearing into his flesh. "What happened to my brother? He wrote to me just last year, saying he was studying abroad—and that once I got out, he'd take me to the amusement park!" I still keep Simon's letter hidden in the cloth pouch; every line brims with dreams of the future. How could it be... A flicker of pity crossed the man's eyes but quickly vanished, replaced by cold indifference. "Mr. Simon Jones died three years ago." "Impossible!" I screamed, tears pouring down uncontrollably. "You're lying to me! My brother was so healthy; he was only seventeen!" He was so good at basketball. Every letter he sent said he'd grown taller. How could he be dead? "Mr. Shaw said this was the last thing he could do for you." The man pried my hand open, shoved the wooden box into my arms, and said, "The address is in the GPS. Find your way there yourself." The car sped away, leaving me standing there, trembling, clutching that cold box. The box was light—light as a feather. But to me, it felt heavy enough to break my spine. Simon was such a vibrant life—how did he end up in this cold, lifeless box? I hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address the man had left behind. It was a private sanatorium on the outskirts of the city. The scenery outside the car window blurred past, but I couldn't focus on any of it. All I could see was that wooden box, and my heart was filled with Simon's smiling face.