March 9th, 1940.

{Writing}

Dear, Harry;

Thirteen days now. It feels so long now. It feels like forever. And I'm still cold. I'm still barely sleeping. My eyes are dead from the lack of sleep. My body feels numb.

I wake up everyday, expecting to see you lying next to me; Only to be disappointed. I wish to see you just once more. Just one day. Is that so much to ask for? I only pray, my love.

Love, Louis.