April 3rd, 1940.
{Writing}
Dear, Harry:
Please, Harry. It's been hours and still nothing from you. I'm praying and hoping that you're alright, but you keep making me loose hope. When are you gonna give us a sign? I'm worried, your mum's worried, everybody is worried.
The news is giving me no justice. I just keep praying that you're okay. I keep hoping that you'll somehow give us a sign. Please my love, just any sign will be good enough.
Love, Louis.
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