I froze at the knock, gripping the cup I’d washed three times just to keep my hands busy. No one visited me—not since I got out.

Then I heard it.
“Dad… it’s me.”
Seventeen years. That’s how long it had been since I’d heard Nate’s voice. Last time, he wouldn’t look at me as the judge said, *thirty to life*. Now, he stood in my doorway, taller, older—beside him, a little girl clutching a stuffed rabbit.
“I told her you just got back,” Nate said. Like I’d been on a trip. Not locked away for a crime I didn’t commit.
Inside, we sat stiffly, the plastic-covered couch crackling.
“She asks about her grandpa,” Nate admitted. “Figured she should know the truth.” He pulled out an old, wrinkled photo—me holding him at a county fair. On the back, a crayon drawing: a tall man holding a little girl’s hand.
Then his eyes darkened. “Did you lie to me? Even once?”

“No,” I said. “I tried to help Devon. But the cops saw me over him—that was all they needed.”
Nate exhaled. “Three months ago, a man confessed on his deathbed. You took the fall.”
I swallowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know what to believe,” he admitted. “But I do now.” He handed me the drawing. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said, voice thick.
Liana tugged at my pant leg. “Grandpa, can you read me a story?”
I looked at Nate—he nodded. As I read, she curled up beside me, as if we’d always known each other.

An hour later, at the door, Nate hesitated. “Dinner’s at my place next Sunday. Liana wants you there.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
As he left, he turned back one last time.
“I kept that photo,” he said. “Even after the trial. I just forgot who you were for a while.”
I sat in the silence after they drove away. Only now, it wasn’t heavy. It felt… peaceful.
Some wounds heal not with time, but with truth—and a second chance.