Last night I was back in the cell block with an armful of unsent letters

I'm standing in the old cell block after lights out, and I can see every door clear as day even though it's dark. I'm holding a stack of envelopes addressed to men I used to guard — names I haven't thought of in years. The count is being called and I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I wake up with my hand still curled like I'm gripping the rail of the stairs.