The corridor in front of the cell was narrow, just over two meters wide, with the floor stones laid out unevenly, some slightly sunken, as if the centuries had chosen specific spots to give in first. The light came from a torch fixed to the opposite wall, the flame flickering lazily and casting dancing shadows through the bars.
The smell of burnt animal fat lingered in the air — cheap and efficient fuel, but it clung to clothing like an old regret.
The cell, on the other hand, was a vertical cage. Three steps in any direction. A straw bed that had long given up on pretending to be useful, a sanitary corner with a dark metal hole that looked more like an insult, and a bucket of stagnant water that was half water, half existential doubt.
