The door squeals, like it hasn’t been opened in years. As light and fresh air enter these walls, for the first time in a long time, a slight breeze flows outside, as warm and moist as someone’s breath.

Footsteps echo through the abandoned halls, and with each thundering echo the vermin, mice, rats and cockroaches scurry away.

The bars are old and rusted, broken down and jagged like teeth. The mess hall floor is stained brown with blood, and the skeletons of inmates and guards alike are strewn across the floor. There is a crunching sound as a foot steps onto the sleeve of an old sweatshirt. The sleeve is examined; there’s something inside, an old piece of paper. The paper crinkles as it is picked up, and it is covered in the same coating of age as everything else. It smells of blood. There is writing on the paper, and the ink is old and faded, its words just visible, but still unknown.

There is one last noise – a loud thump – followed by one last gasp of air, and then the hall is silent, undisturbed. At least, that’s what you are told. Maybe you don’t believe it, but that doesn’t matter.

You’re here, by the ash grey wall with the rusted door. You decide to open the door; you have your reasons, but in the end they don’t matter.

The door squeals, like it hasn’t been opened in years. You feel a slight breeze on your face, as warm and moist as someone’s breath.

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