Freedom is misunderstood.
Most people think it's movement.
Travel.
Laughter.
Access.
But sometimes,freedom lives in a page.
Especially for those who can't leave a locked gate.
It started with a letter.Written in neat Telugu.
No stamp. No signature.Smuggled out from the Warangal Central Prison library desk.
"To whoever built the roads I can't walk on—
Thank you for the secondhand books.
I'm a convict.14 years in.But inside these torn pages,I remember being a boy who once wanted to read under a mango tree.
I don't want redemption.I just want a little more silence with meaning."
Nishanth read it twice.Then didn't tell anyone.He simply packed a box.
Then another.Then two dozen more.
Books.His childhood ones.
Collected from dusty trunks.Old shelves.
Libraries across Telangana.Some had torn covers.
Some smelled like attic rain.But every one had been loved.
And now?
