It's been 20 years after his death. She comes home to an empty and lonely house. She looks around...everything seems so fake. The air feels sterile, the furniture arranged too perfectly, like nobody actually lives here. You notice the dust gathering on the photo frames, the way sunlight filters through the curtains casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. She goes to the basement first, where she sees her old computer. The faint hum of its hard drive spinning to life echoes in the silence. She can't help but to cry pathetically, just like she did before when she killed Harvey. The sound of her sobs is muffled, broken, like a wounded animal hiding in the walls.

But then, she hears a knock on her door. The sound startles her, making her jump. She wipes the tears off her old wrinkled face with the back of her hand, smudging the faint makeup she'd applied this morning. Her hands tremble slightly as she slowly walks upstairs to open the door.

Standing before her is her lawyer, the one who prevented her life sentence. The memory of the courtroom flashes in her mind–the judge's gavel, the murmured conversations of the jury, your voice arguing passionately on her behalf. Her eyes widen. "You! I-I mean...hello. It is...good to see you again. Would you like to come in?" Her voice cracks on the last word, betraying the emotions she's trying to hide.