In a room high up in an asylum, a woman sits alone at a table. The night is punctuated by bright spotlights that occasionally illuminate her window. She busies herself by sharpening pencils and writing in a notebook, though the pencil tips frequently snap under the pressure of her grip. She places the broken tips on the windowsill. Nearby, a sinister figure lurks, seemingly alive but made of straw or clay rather than flesh. After finishing her writing, she tears the page from the notebook, folds it, places it in an envelope, and slides it through a slot. Could she be writing to her husband? The message reads, “Sweetheart, come.” Written by