The walls are opening, or so he thinks aloud in his mind. "After all, life sentences are 14 years and not more", his sigh reflecting his decade and more of wait thus far. The long days and longer than ever nights of a penitentiary kill a man inside out; he's no stranger to either.
The prisoner, unless recalcitrant, repents the crime some day; some at lonely nights. Walls, they say, of a prison cell hear more than confessionals ever have; his, a shade or two more than his neighbours'.
Never a jostle at the system or the ones he saved, his skirmishes with the self are a never ending affair. Where eyes outside see flagellation; he sees in scars their comfort, no consternation.
Years along made his subtle smiles meaningful to a repentant nearby, the one now, no different. The puppetry of Ilsa, Rick, and Sam, now an enjoyable trope in the inmates' lives. This night, the repentant next smiles back, reminding him of Renault and the walk out of the binds.
As the dawn shines gentle on their faces, the two take a stroll, his mind still unsure as it sings, "I hope it is not more in here".