The 29th monsoon had finally dried when a distant buzzing sent Nude scrambling for cover. A tiny plane dipped and swerved, filled the air with swirling white and disappeared.
He cautiously approached one of the scattered pices of paper:
We've been writing letters each day
hoping that you'll come home.
And we're wondering if you're okay.
As you're not on the phone.
Face the facts now
Take a chance.
Come on back now.
Fast.
Please come home,
Please come home.
Everyone cares for you.
Please come home,
Please come home.
Everyone cares for you,
Everyone.