[She found herself in a hotel first. And then was drawn to a door, to this place that looks like home but has none of her men (or, more importantly, her son) in it. But this is a name she recognizes, even if the letters appear without explanation. She writes before his own even switch to English, her own writing swift and with the grainy texture of charcoal.]
How dare you say that things are better. Where is Bjorn?