The West Sea Prison was located in the heart of the desert, and its management was notably lax. There was no need to worry about inmates attempting escape—life inside the prison at least guaranteed survival, whereas fleeing meant a near-certain death in the merciless desert.
This was a place reserved for the most hardened criminals. Many entered, but few ever left.
Normally, on the fifteenth of each month, a supply truck would arrive, delivering food, new prisoners, and rotating staff. But today was only the seventh, and yet a vehicle had pulled in.
Amid the jeers and shouts of the prisoners, the heavy gates of West Sea Prison creaked open, and a gaunt man was escorted out.
"Sign this, and you're free to go," a guard said, handing him a pen and a sheet of paper.
The vehicle rumbled through the endless desert, flanked by four armed officers—two in front, two in back—with the man seated silently between them. He kept his head down, occasionally lifting his gaze to the window. His expression was blank, almost numb, until his eyes flickered with faint recognition at the sight of golden thorns dotting the sands.
The officers remained equally silent. Their orders were clear: no mistakes, no incidents. Their sole duty was to deliver this man safely back to his hometown.
Eleven years ago, he had offered a stranger a ride out of kindness. That stranger ended up dead, and he was sentenced to fifteen years. Now, after eleven years behind bars, he was being released early for good behavior.
"Good behavior" in West Sea Prison sounded almost like a cruel joke. The officers had whispered about it among themselves, baffled by how such a thing was even possible.
The drive was long and monotonous—from the vast, scorching desert to the barren gravel plains, then finally to the grasslands, where scattered herds of livestock and traces of human life gradually appeared.
In the passenger seat sat Malcolm Orion, a rookie officer on his first assignment. What had begun as an exciting mission—escorting a prisoner with seasoned colleagues—had quickly turned tedious. Yawning repeatedly, he perked up at the sight of a roadside stall selling Hami melons.
"Hey, seniors," he said, unable to resist, "mind if I grab us some melons?"
The two officers in the back nodded, and the vehicle pulled over. The driver switched places with one of the rear passengers, who then accompanied Malcolm to the fruit stand.
Malcolm Orion asked with a puzzled expression, "Senior, isn't he just some ordinary farmer? Why all the fuss?"
The veteran SWAT officer smirked at his young companion's naive face. "Maybe he was just a farmer before. But after spending over a decade in Xihai Prison, there's no way he's ordinary anymore."
Seeing Malcolm's skeptical look, the officer didn't elaborate further.
This man named Travis Ives had been released from Xihai Prison, only to find his parents dead, his wife gone with another man, and his house occupied. If he went back now, he might end up returning to Xihai Prison within days.
Travis Ives was sent back with considerable fanfare.
His village was poor, remote, and backward. Even now, eleven years later, people still talked about how a police car had taken Travis away. The once promising young man who had outshone his peers was now seen by everyone as a deranged killer—rumors claimed the money he'd used to buy a car, build a house, and marry had all been stolen through murder.
The village chief, Sylvester Pembroke, came to pick Travis up. They had been elementary school classmates. Back when Travis was thriving, Sylvester had been idling at home. Now, he was a village official. Staring at the gaunt, unshaven man before him, Sylvester could hardly believe this was the same handsome, ambitious Travis Ives he once knew.
Sylvester warmly greeted the four SWAT officers, insisting they stay for a meal. When they declined, he politely saw them off before turning his attention to Travis.
"Travis," he said in an official tone, "now that you're back, focus on living a proper life. If you run into any difficulties, come to the village. We'll help however we can."
Travis didn't respond, his gaze fixed blankly on the village.
As the village chief, Sylvester had no desire to take Travis in. Travis's family was gone—his house now belonged to Sylvester's fourth uncle, and the land under his name had long since vanished. But since Travis was originally from Bottleneck Village, Sylvester couldn't just drive him away.
"Ahem," Sylvester cleared his throat. "The village has arranged a place for you to stay. There's an old house at the west end—you can live there for now." When Travis remained silent, Sylvester couldn't resist lecturing him. "Since the state has released you early, you should be grateful. Start over and behave yourself!"
Travis finally looked at Sylvester and said, "I will."
That single glance sent a chill down Sylvester's spine. Though Travis's eyes still seemed dull, something about them felt unnerving. After a few more perfunctory instructions, Sylvester quickly left.
By afternoon, the sun was still bright as Travis walked alone toward the west end of the village—known locally as West Mouth. The older generation in Bottleneck Village claimed the area had bad feng shui, so hardly anyone lived there now, leaving only a single dilapidated old house.
Travis pushed open the door. The interior was dark but spacious, with a shadowy courtyard where a single sliver of sunlight slanted through.
Staring at that lone beam of light, Travis sank to the ground and burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Villagers who happened to pass by West Mouth that day later spread rumors of ghostly wails—broken, mournful cries that seemed to linger in the air.
