After three years locked away, I returned to learn my father had d!ed and my stepmother ruled his house. She didn’t know he’d hidden a letter and key, leading to a unit and video proving frame-up.

Freedom didn’t arrive with a sense of relief.
It arrived smelling like fuel exhaust, burnt coffee, and cold metal—the unmistakable scent of a bus station just before sunrise. It tasted like a world that had kept moving while I stood still. I walked out through the iron gates holding a transparent plastic bag that contained everything I owned: two flannel …