Then came a sound that didn’t fit the bleak atmosphere at all — the rhythmic click of heels approaching. It grew louder until a female officer appeared outside his cell. Her uniform was meticulously pressed, but her expression held something gentler, something human.

“You’re permitted one last request,” she said, her voice soft and steady. There was no harshness, no commanding tone — just a woman speaking to another human being nearing the end of his journey.

The man swallowed, his voice trembling. “I don’t want a meal. Or cigarettes. Or anything like that.” He paused, emotion tightening his throat. “I just want to see my mother. Even for one minute. I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

The officer felt a sudden ache in her chest. She had heard every type of final request — a favorite song, a final letter home, a personal item — but this one pierced through her in a way she didn’t expect. This wasn’t about comfort. This was about a son longing for the only unconditional love he had ever known.

“I’ll do what I can,” she replied quietly.