In the remote corners of Eldridge County, a maximum-security prison, built over fifty years ago, stood as a monument to forgotten lives. Mira Alden, a 28-year-old former veterinary student, found herself serving a twelve-year sentence for a crime she still insisted she didn’t commit—the poisoning of a wealthy client’s prized racing dog.

Her conviction was a storm of media speculation, betrayal, and the silence of those who once called her friends. Days passed in oppressive stillness. Nights dragged on like dark shadows, creeping endlessly forward.

Then, the tapping began.

At first, Mira assumed it was just rats in the walls. But soon, she noticed the rhythm—a deliberate knock, a pause, then a double tap. Her heart raced as she froze, listening intently. Then came the whisper.

“Hey… anyone there?”

Her throat tightened. She crouched near the vent, barely able to breathe as she whispered back, “Who are you?”

A long pause followed before the reply came. “Call me Jace.”

He was in the solitary wing, in a cell just like hers. Jace had spent years in and out of Graystone, often for theft and the occasional fight.

What started as accidental communication soon grew into a daily ritual. They shared pieces of their lives before prison—her dream of opening a veterinary clinic, his love for classic novels. They invented games, exchanged stories, and over time, they became more than just voices in the dark.

Months passed. Mira’s mental fog began to lift. She started journaling again, writing on scraps of toilet paper, sketching animals on her cell wall with tea grounds and a toothbrush.

Then one night, everything shifted.

Jace whispered something that made her heart skip a beat. “I need to give you something tomorrow. Through the vent. It’s important.”

“What is it?” she asked, anxiety filling her chest.

“You’ll see.”

True to his word, the following day, Mira heard the faint rustle through the vent, followed by a tugging sound—something being pushed through the duct, attached to a string. She carefully reached in, trying not to make any noise. Wrapped in plastic and cloth was a small tube—similar to those used in medical clinics, sealed tightly. At first, she didn’t understand.

“Jace… what is this?”

His voice was barely audible, “It’s part of me. So we can make something that lasts beyond this place.”

Her breath caught. The idea seemed insane, yet she found herself holding the tube, her hands trembling, silently processing what he meant.

For the next week, the prison was strangely quiet. No guards patrolled. No announcements came for meals. Mira barely took notice. Her mind was occupied with the strange gift she had received—and what it meant.

Then she made the decision. Using a thin plastic glove and a makeshift applicator, one she’d once used to treat a cat’s ear infection years ago, she did what no one would have believed.

Weeks later, Mira began to feel unwell. Nauseous, dizzy, and a warmth she couldn’t explain. Then it hit her.

She was pregnant.

Warden Hale stormed into the solitary wing, disbelief on his face. “This is impossible,” he muttered. “No physical contact. No male staff. No breaches.”

An investigation followed, rumors spreading like wildfire. When no evidence turned up, they started inspecting the vents.

That’s when they found the remnants—cloth strips, plastic wrappings, and crude tools. The evidence was almost absurd, yet it was real.

Mira was moved to the infirmary wing. She refused to name the father. “It was through the vents. That’s all I’ll say,” she told them.

Months later, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy—the first child ever born in Graystone. Inmates across the prison quietly celebrated, passing notes through cracks in the walls. They named him “The Airborn.”

Jace? He was never seen again. Some said he was released early. Others believed he had been transferred. Mira never discovered the truth. But sometimes, late at night, she’d hear a soft knock coming from deep within the ducts, a faint echo like a ghost reminding her, I’m still here.