Back in the girl's room, Rose sits at the lone, small window overlooking a barren courtyard where a few patients ramble about. Joan sits on her bed, arms crossed, watching her roommate.
Sighing, Rose turns, avoiding Joan's eyes and making her way to her half-unpacked luggage. She shifts through her small amount of items, coming across a piece of paper which makes her blank expression shift to distress.
A voice, identified as Rose's sister, is heard as Rose is reading over the words:
My dearest sister,
I know you can't remember me, my name, who even if you had an older sister anyways. Still, I cannot believe that you don't, and it is surreal that you are not there when I visit Mom and Dad. They miss you, and I do too. But we haven't the slightest idea what's gone wrong with you, and only hope that you would not attack them, open yourself to re-learn of us, and we would return you home.
That your memories of me, of us, our closeness. The days when we played in the yard or all the family Thanksgiving dinners. All the inside jokes we shared, the sisterly affection. I hope that one day I can assist you in remembering all of this, that somewhere in your head it is still there, that it can be brought to light.
Please write me back, and I will try to visit you when I can. I love you.
JOAN: Still watching Rose, she frowns. What's that?
ROSE: Jumps abruptly from her thoughts, blinking aside a thin layer of tears. Nothing.
JOAN: No really, what is it? Pausing, she turns her gaze to the window and shrugs. Mutters, Okay, whatever.
ROSE: Walks over, plops on her bed. She tosses the letter carelessly at Joan. Read it, I don't care. I don't want it anyways. You can keep it, or burn it. Rather you'd burn it.
JOAN: Lips twitch in a half smile before she turns her eyes to the letter, briefly scanning it. You can't remember anything?
ROSE: Well, I can remember some things. Like, reading, writing, arithmatic--all the things I learned in school. I...just can't remeber my....life.
ROSE: Sighs. I don't know.