The medical room was cold and smelled of antiseptic. Amara sat on the examination bed with a thin blanket over her body. Her head had felt heavy since morning, and her vision blurred several times, making her uncomfortable.
An officer escorted her inside, then left after making sure Amara was seated properly. Amara let out a slow breath; she had been in this horrible place for five months now.
With no clarity from Richard, and no further development regarding the real murderer.
Was Amara really going to bear the sin committed by someone else? Had Richard and her father-in-law never tried to investigate further?
Why were they taking so long? Amara gently clenched her hair, frustrated by the situation.
Not long after, a male doctor entered while carrying a clipboard. His steps were calm, his expression flat, looking professional.
"Your name, ma'am?" he asked briefly without looking up.
"Amara Gabrielle," Amara replied softly.
The doctor nodded and wrote something down. "What seems to be the complaint?"
"My head hurts. I've had a fever since last night," Amara answered honestly.
The doctor stepped closer and raised the thermometer. "Open your mouth."
Amara complied. After a few seconds, the doctor checked the number on the device.
"Mild fever," he said. "How many days have you been sleep-deprived?"
Amara fell silent for a moment. "I don't know. Ever since I've been here, I've never been able to sleep well. This place is suffocating."
The doctor did not respond to that remark and simply continued writing. He then wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Amara's arm.
"Take a deep breath. Release."
The needle moved slowly.
"Your blood pressure is elevated," he said flatly. "Do you often feel anxious?"
Amara gave a faint, hollow smile. "Anxious. My anxiety is pointless now. I can't do anything, I can't even meet my child."
For the first time, the male doctor looked at Amara. The glance was brief—neither judgmental nor warm.
"Have you ever given birth?" he asked after reading her file.
"Yes."
"Are you still producing breast milk?"
Amara slowly shook her head.
"Stress can worsen your physical condition. If you faint in your cell, it will complicate matters for everyone," the doctor said while writing a prescription. "I'll prescribe fever-reducing medication and vitamins. Take them as directed."
Amara accepted the paper and stood up without saying a word.
"If you have any other complaints, you can contact the officer again and come here."
"You're a new doctor? I remember the previous doctor wasn't you. He was an older man," Amara asked, her memory still sharp.
"Yes, I replaced Doctor Crist. He chose to retire about two weeks ago."
Amara did not respond warmly, her gaze remaining empty with a flat expression. "Your name?"
"Kaisar Diamond Carlton."
"Doctor Diamond, alright. At least there's a nice view here," Amara said as she turned around and left the room.
Kaisar leaned back against his chair, watching Amara until she disappeared from sight.
---
Six months passed.
"You're not lying to me, right, Richard? You're trying to find that murderer and get me out of here? How long do I have to wait?"
Amara was slightly impatient when Richard came to visit. It had been far too long. Who could endure being imprisoned without a clear reason?
However, Richard once again gave an unsatisfying response.
"I've asked people to investigate this. You know it yourself— the police have already declared you guilty. We can't reopen the case."
"Why not? Wouldn't it be easier with police assistance?" Amara asked while staring at him longer, desperately hoping for action rather than empty promises.
"Darling…" Richard used his gentle tone, the one he always used to calm Amara when she was upset. "It's not that I don't want to act quickly, but everything takes time. After the police investigation, the crime scene was cleared, and it's possible the perpetrator erased their traces early on."
Amara fell silent. She was tired of hearing the same words. Always empty explanations, with no real proof of progress in finding the murderer.
Amara was constantly told to stay calm.
Amara was constantly told to be patient.
Without Richard ever asking whether his wife was sleeping well. Yes, Richard always spoke gently, but Amara needed action to free her.
Or could it be that Richard never thought about her at all? Or… had Richard never truly tried to find who killed her uncle?
That couldn't be. Richard couldn't be like that, right? I try to trust him more than anyone else. I'm always obedient and never argue.
Amara killed her own suspicions about this man.
"Then please allow me to call Vero's nanny. I want to hear and see my son, Richard," Amara changed the subject, knowing Richard brought no information she wanted.
"Amara, you forgot? Phones aren't allowed in here. My phone is outside."
Amara was disappointed. She had never heard or seen her baby again. Vero must be crawling by now, right? What did he look like now?
Amara felt like she could truly go insane from all this torment.
"Please ask permission from the officer to get your phone from outside. You must have a photo of Vero, right? I want to see it," Amara begged again.
"I can't. My visiting time is almost over, darling. You have to trust me. I'll take good care of him."
Richard could have tried to ask for more time, so why didn't he? This time, Amara's gaze held real disappointment, though she had not yet realized it because of the trust she still placed in him.
"How about I try to give Vero's photo to the officer later? I'll send it afterward. Do you agree?"
Amara nodded. "Alright."
After Richard left, the visitation room fell silent again.
Amara sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair in front of her. She tried to remember Vero's face, but her memory was beginning to blur.
For the first time, Amara was afraid—not because of prison, but because she might forget her own child's face.
---
The photo Richard had promised finally arrived. Vero's face was now real before her eyes. The son who had once been only two weeks old was now about a year old. Vero could already stand on his own, his body small, his face handsome, looking like a perfect mold of Amara in her childhood.
That photo was all Amara had—the only one, never replaced—as Richard began to visit less and less.
The man was busy, busy, and busy. Amara no longer asked about the progress of the investigation because she was exhausted. Limited access to communication and the absence of any visitors other than Richard left her trapped.
Amara began to feel… as though people were distancing themselves from her.
---
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, until months turned into another year. Amara remained in prison with no other choice.
Don't ask how many times she had fallen and broken down, forcing her mental strength to endure to its limits—all of it was for one purpose.
That was… to return and uncover the mastermind behind her uncle's murder herself. Richard gave up searching for more information, citing missing evidence, erased traces, or the possibility that the perpetrator had fled.
But to Amara, the truth was never too late. What existed were people who gave up too easily, causing the truth to be delayed.
That day, in her seventh year, Amara finally breathed free air. Her steps were still determined despite her increasingly thin body and simple clothes.
Having not been outside for so long, the outside world felt somewhat unfamiliar to her. Seven years—yes, for that long she had been confined, burying all her emotions within herself.
The iron prison gate slowly opened, producing a heavy sound that had been part of Amara's life for seven years. An officer handed over the final documents and gave a brief nod.
"Congratulations. Your sentence has ended."
Amara stepped out hesitantly. The air outside felt strange—too free, too vast. There was no car parked waiting for her. No Richard. No family. No one at all.
Amara looked to the right, then to the left.
Empty.
"Was I truly never waited for, from the very beginning?" Amara murmured softly.
Richard should have remembered today. Amara had told him long ago—the date of her release from prison.
'Seven years, Richard. I tried to think positively for your sake. Now I'm free… I hope you're truly just busy, not deliberately absent. At the very least, I can still tolerate your busyness rather than having to accept your betrayal.'