He turned his back on the glass. He didn't wave. He didn't look over his shoulder. To look back would be to break whatever fragile piece of his sanity remained. He shuffled forward, his steps heavy and dragging, guided gently but firmly by the guard toward the heavy, reinforced steel door painted a depressing, industrial gray. The pacing of the moment was agonizingly slow, a long, continuous focus on his retreating back. The cold, bluish hues of the prison lighting seemed to swallow him as he approached the threshold of his cell block, leaving the warm memory of his family behind in the sterile visitation booth. The door loomed before him, an unyielding gateway back to the abyss.
The perspective violently shifted to the other side of the glass. The wife, seeing her husband turn his back and walk away, felt the final thread of her composure snap. The fake, bright smile collapsed into a mask of pure anguish. She lunged forward slightly, pressing her open palm flat against the thick, cold glass exactly where his reflection had just been. She sobbed openly now, her shoulders heaving, pulling the baby closer to her chest for an anchor in the storm of her grief. The baby, sensing the sudden shift in the emotional atmosphere, stopped clapping and looked up at her mother with wide, confused eyes.
The natural light filtering in from a high, grated window cast a melancholic, soft glow over the mother and child, emphasizing their isolation in the visitor's center. Suddenly, the sharp, metallic clack-clack of a heavy deadbolt disengaging echoed loudly in her space. The wife gasped, her breath catching in her throat as she instinctively tightened her grip on her child. She turned her tear-streaked face toward the heavy gray door on her side of the room. The handle turned. The door swung open, revealing the imposing silhouette of a corrections officer standing in the doorway.