A man is wrongfully accused of murder and is in prison. What's his story? Who is the actual murderer? 

It wasn’t actually him, and I knew it. He wasn’t the one who should be in here, cuffs dangling around his wrists, dragging his feet down the corridors of a maximum security prison, a guard on either side of him. He wasn’t supposed to be in here, and the two of us were the only ones who knew.
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He was one of the employees at my mother’s company. I didn’t work there, but I knew about him. He didn’t have much money. His adoptive parents apparently both died in a car crash years back. He didn’t have family or friends that really cared for him, of course except for my sister. The two seemed to be obsessed with each other from the first time they saw each other. It honestly wasn’t very smart of my sister to, he didn’t really have anything going for him. Maybe it’s okay that she’s gone now.
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I see him almost everyday. Sometimes I’m the one to bring him meals. I slide the metal bar and peek in, before I slide the tray in. He’s always the same; laying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as if he can find all the answers to his questions up there. I haven’t seen him cry at all, though. I personally would’ve been a bit more upset if the only person that cared for me had died. Maybe he just grieves differently.
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I can still clearly remember the day of his court hearing. He had to come in with an overworked district attorney, since he couldn’t afford anything else. My parents on the other hand, were well prepared with their prosecutors.
My mother and father never really liked him, always telling my sister that she could do so much better, that he wasn’t worth it. Now, they were probably blinded by rage, even if they didn’t know for sure that it was him who had decided on my sister’s fate.
He and my sister had gotten into a fight about our parents on that disastrous day. He kept telling her how she had to stand up against her mother and father, but she said it was all useless, and that they should be happy the way things are. This argument obviously didn’t work in his favor in the case, because from an outside perspective, he could have acted on intent.
As the case unravelled and he slowly realized justice wouldn’t be served, his expression seemed to lose all form of warmth. Before, he’d been a mess, just like my parents. With the death of a loved one came pain, and the three of them were not dealing well, but he still kept his posture straight and voice clear. At least, that was until the final moments of the case.
“The capitol felony was a homicide and committed in a cold, calculated and premeditated manner without any pretense of moral or legal justification. The defendant is charged with first degree murder and will serve a life sentence without parole.”
He was surprisingly calm for someone who was wrongfully charged with murder. His face was hard as stone as security escorted him out, handcuffs behind his back. I was in the back of the room, away from it all. No one questioned me for it, people say my method of coping is just different. I wish I cared, just a bit more.
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Watching him everyday was probably the most interesting part of my day. One time he even looked back at me. His eyes were surprisingly soft, like he felt no hatred. But what scared me the most was the lack of feeling in his expression. The metal slide rattled as I slammed it shut.
I let out a deep breath. Now was not the time to feel guilt for what I did. Now was not the time to question my dignity. Now was not the time to tell the truth. What’s done is done.