"Nice day, huh?"

Red was startled to hear a voice when he thought he was alone. He looked up and saw a young woman standing near him, leaning against the stone wall. She had soft brown hair and wore a brimmed hat and glasses. There was something oddly familiar about her.

"Oh," he said. "Yes. Yes it is."

"You're not from here, are you?" she asked.

"Actually, I've lived in Maine most of my life," Red said.

"Really? 'Cause I've never seen you before. Around here, everyone knows everyone."

"Well…" he debated whether to tell her the truth. "I've been in prison for the last 40 years."

"Prison? Which one?"

"Shawshank."

"Shawshank?" she repeated. "You must've known my dad."

"It's possible. What's his name?"

"Andy Dufresne."

"As a matter of fact, I did know your dad," Red said. "He was my best friend. But he never told me about you."

"No, he wouldn't have," she said bitterly. "He never cared about us. He caught my mom in bed with another man and killed them both. I was five years old. I don't remember him at all. I was sent to live with my uncle and aunt in Boston - I'm a teacher there now. But I come here every summer. This is where my parents met. I know it's stupid to be all sentimental about it, but… I don't know, I just think it's really beautiful."

"It is really beautiful," Red agreed. "And you know what? Your father didn't kill your mother or her fella."

"He told you that? And you believed him?"

"I do believe him," Red said. "Your mother was killed by a career criminal. He was after the fella. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Oh," said the woman. She seemed to be processing this information. Finally she looked up. "Let's say it's true then. Why didn't he ever tell you about me?"

"I don't know," Red said. "Maybe he felt ashamed that you would grow up without him, hating him. Maybe he just wanted to keep a secret for himself. Your father is a very private person."

"Is? So he's still alive?"

"I think so," Red said. "I hope so. Can you keep a secret?" She nodded. "Andy escaped."

She gasped. "He escaped? When?"

"A few weeks ago."

"Do - do you know where he went?"

"Zihuatanejo," Red said. "It's a town in Mexico."

"Why didn't he come see me after he escaped?" she demanded. "If he cared so much - "

"He probably didn't know where you were," Red said. "And even if he did, seeing him would put you in danger."

"Yeah," she said. "I guess you're right. Still… for the last twenty years, I thought he killed my mother. I'm not sure I'm ready to see him."

"I'd like to show you this," he said, handing her the postcard. "He wrote it for me, but I'm sure he would want you to see it too."

She took the postcard and began to read. Red watched as her eyes welled up with tears.

"Hope is a good thing," she read aloud. "Maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies." She gave the postcard back to Red. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank him. Preferably in person."

"In person?" she said.

"Sure. I'm going to see him now. You can come with me if you want."

"Mexico's a long way away," she said. "No offense, but I wouldn't want to make that journey with a stranger."

"We can tell each other our names," said Red. "And then we won't be strangers no more."

"All right," she said. "What's your name?"

"Red," he said. "What's yours?"

"Hope."