The room was barren; the wind blew against her ginger hair. She stood up slowly with her tattered brown dress that covered the holes of her stockings and her knees. She said nothing, but looked left and right. At her left, a brown ankle boot for her cold right toes, and at her right, a light brown messenger bag with a green barrette.
She grabbed the bag and put on her boot. She then opened the bag; it wasn't filled with much just pens, a phone, a brown wallet, and a moleskin book which was brown. (She has then concluded to herself that she must love this earthy colour.)
She looked inside the wallet, hoping to identify herself, to her misfortune, none; only a few coins and bills to keep her company. She opened the book to the first page to where it said "Je m'appelle Anita Bontecou." It had lovely handwriting; curves clean and sleek, and slanted to the right. She skipped to the latest entry.
It's cold and damp. I've skipped my meal at the cafe and hurried to my destination. To my misfortune, I've been found yet again.
The girl put her hand at her stomach as she felt it grumble, probably explains why she's rather famished. The word "found" though, has left such ambiguity to worry her. She dug her pockets for anymore spare change.
Then something slipped in the small gap of the door and floor, it was a small red card. She quickly picked it up and opened the door to see no one at sight. So she read:
"AB. Downstairs 9pm. Wear green. Look for blue. Z."
She flipped the card over, to read such foreign language, a name of a bar.
.Wait, how could I understand that?"