Ninety-eight times, there was nothing there. This time, there is one more word - escape.
The ink has dried, the pen is sharp, and the last stroke is long and crooked, as if the writer's hand is shaking. She didn't write it. She searched all over her body, but there were no wounds. The windows were bolted from the inside, and so were the doors. There were no footprints on the ground. The gray cat in the corner arched its body, a low whimper rolled out of its throat, and its green eyes stared at her motionlessly, as if looking at an old friend who should have woken up long ago.
Intention: If she doesn't want everyone to know, I will definitely tell her.