I can't play instruments, or paint, or embroider like the rich ladies do and no way to learn any of those things.

There is nothing to mend, wash or clean for me, no place to plant anything. I have a tiny 2 by 2 meter terrace with a dirt floor and old, high walls all around. I wonder if anything could grow here.

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The muffled sounds make everything eerie. So many people, all out of reach.

The room is square, as big as the terrace. Most of the space is taken up by the big brick bed, but there are a box and a shelf, too. And a small table. I sit on the kang and write at the table. I don't lack anything. They give me good food.

I don't know what to do with myself.

What am I writing? Is this even a letter?