After the walls

Chapter 8 : After the walls

The gates creaked open slowly, with the kind of ceremony that neither man had imagined would be so quiet. No trumpets, no applause just the sound of metal scraping against metal, the rust of years being lifted like a veil. And then they were outside.

Harrison stepped first, squinting at the morning light as though it had aged in his absence. Beside him, Templeman hesitated. His hand trembled just slightly at his side, the only outward betrayal of the storm inside.

They had been granted amnesty. Not because the world suddenly believed in their innocence, but because time, tides, and the mercy of men had finally turned.

Amnesty had come in the form of a signed paper and a final nod from the board. But it felt more like a rebirth.

For Harrison, it was the sky that undid him. Vast and painted in layers of blue he'd forgotten. He closed his eyes and let the breeze move through him like absolution.

He had memorized the world in black and white ,the walls of his cell, the cold silver of the toilet, the rust-colored letters in the Bible he read every Sunday. But freedom arrived in colour. It dazzled him.

Templeman, ever quieter, pulled his coat tighter across his chest. He didn't know where to begin. His wife had passed during his second year in prison, and his son had stopped writing after the fifth.

He had long since made peace with the fact that he would die behind bars. But now the world was demanding a second life from him and he wasn't sure if he had one to give.

They didn't speak much that first day. Their steps matched as they walked out of the facility, past the reporters who quickly grew bored of their silence.

There were no signs, no chants—just the rustling of trees in the distance and the hard thump of their boots on the pavement.

Henry met them at the edge of the parking lot, his old truck idling, engine sputtering like it was waking from a long nap.

"You boys look like ghosts," Henry said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

Harrison smiled, faintly. "We've been haunting the same walls for years. Guess we're not used to walking through them."

Templeman chuckled, but his eyes glistened. He knew the fight it had taken to get to this moment—the years of appeals, the testimonies, the letters, the campaigns, the prayers. He had never given up on them, and now, he was their first bridge to the world.

The first nights , they stayed at a modest cabin on the edge of town, where the woods met the river and the stars were unafraid to show their faces. Templeman stood outside the first night, arms crossed, watching the water rush by.

"I feel like I don't know how to be a person anymore," he confessed.

Harrison stood beside him, staring into the same darkness. "We start small," he said. "One breath at a time."

Templeman looked at him, and for the first time in years, allowed the smallest smile to tug at his lips. "You always were the hopeful one."

"I had to be," Harrison said. "You were the smart one. Someone had to keep the dream alive."

That night, Templeman didn't sleep much, but he didn't tremble, either.

Adjusting was not easy. The world had changed in their absence. Cars were sleeker, phones were smaller, and people moved faster than they remembered.

There were moments when they felt like time travelers from another era—two relics set loose in a future not meant for them.

At the local diner, the waitress looked at them strangely the first time they ordered. Harrison noticed. He always noticed. But he also saw the way Templeman gently put his hand and navigated the menu.

Small victories may eventually come their way : learning how to use an ATM, choosing groceries at the market, figuring out how to work a microwave. They were men who had survived decades of routine, and now the chaos of choice was almost too much.

Yet, there were glimmers of beauty. A child waved at them in the park. An old woman gave Templeman a bouquet of wildflowers outside the church, whispering,

"Welcome home." The pastor invited them to speak one evening, and Harrison shared a poem he had written in prison about freedom, about guilt, about the haunting hope of redemption.

The room fell silent after he finished. Then came the applause. Not because the words were perfect—but because they were honest.

He remembered in a sober reflection : One day, a letter arrived for Templeman. The handwriting was shaky. The name on the return address made his hands go cold.

When Templeman finally read the letter, his eyes blurred halfway through. His son hadn't forgiven everything, but he wanted to meet. Templeman pressed the letter to his chest like a lifeline. Later that night, Harrison found him scribbling furiously .

A reply across the room, Harrison was holding a phone to his ear, voice trembling. He was also talking to his daughter. The one he hadn't seen since she was seven.

A new kind of freedom . By spring, they were different men.

Templeman had taken a job at the local library, organizing shelves with a precision that made the young interns look lazy. The children liked him. They called him Mr. T and begged for stories from the "olden days." He read to them every Friday afternoon.

Harrison joined a community gardening project. He had never grown anything before, but he took to it quickly. Something about putting his hands in the soil made him feel real again. Grounded. He planted sunflowers, tomatoes, and once, a row of strawberries just because a little girl said they were her favourite.

People still whispered. Some crossed the street to avoid them. But others—more and more each week—smiled. Waved. Invited them to church, to dinner, to cookouts. Mercy, it turned out, could spread.

One evening, Templeman stood beneath the dusk sky and turned to Harrison.

"Do you think we deserve this?" he asked quietly.

Harrison looked at the sky, painted in gold and violet. "No," he said. "But I think we've earned it. "

On the anniversary of their release, they held a gathering at the community center. Not a celebration—something quieter. They called it a "thank you."

Harrison stood up and spoke first, voice thick with love. "I fought for these men because I believed in the goodness still inside them. And today, I stand here not just as their friend—but as a man who's learned from them what it means to survive with dignity."

Templeman read from his son's latest letter, filled with hope and apologies and plans to visit in the summer.

When it ended, there were tears. But there was laughter too. And in the quiet moments between applause and handshakes, both men stood still, breathing in the air like they were learning it for the first time.

Amnesty was not the end.It was the beginning.