Rahel. Hatty narrowed her eyes and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She tapped indecisively on the paper with a nail painted a perfect deep Ferrari red, then curiously lifted the top half of the folded paper and glanced suspiciously at the writing - Rahel's writing, as always expressive and large and sweeping, slanting confidently steeply to the right and in her ever-same green ink. There were only four words, and Hatty recognised them faster than she could have folded the note up again to avoid having to read the message. With a cry of annoyance, she wiped the note off the table and hit the ball of her right hand against her forehead. Bianca Isabella Christine Tiator, German Psychoanalytical Association; Mainz Psychoanalytical Institute HER ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO A PIECE OF PAPER ON THE TABLE. What was it that caught her eye? Why the paper, why not some other detail in this room? The room was full of interesting furniture and carpets, paintings on the walls and mirrors that made the room appear larger than it actually was. It looked like a room in an old castle, a palace from another time. But everything was so neat and symmetrical that it resembled a museum, uninhabited, lifeless. If it hadn't been for that paper. It didn't fit into this still life at all. It just looked like it had been thrown or fluttered there, carelessly dropped. It brought disorder to this prevailing order. Yes, that was the reason why she was suddenly sure: the paper must be the key she had been searching for all these years. The key that could finally give her the crucial clue as to how she could return to the magical land of her childhood. She was afraid. That's why she still hesitated. But at the same time, deep down inside her, she was absolutely certain that she would do it again. She would go to rescue Isabella – if she was still there, if she was still alive. Julia Gerlach, DPG/German Psychoanalytic Society Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the table. It was red and written on with a black felt-tip pen. That was unusual. Who had put it there? The smell of freshly baked cake from the bakery below her office wafted through the open window and distracted her for a moment. She stared pensively into space for a moment before picking up the sheet of paper and adjusting her glasses. The writing was small and somewhat illegible. "If you're reading this, I'm gone. Don't look for me, it's pointless. Manuel." Manuel? What did that mean, and how did he get into her office, past the secretary who guarded it like Cerberus and only let in selected people who had announced themselves?
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