Peter Helian knew they’d call it ludicrous. He’d written hundreds of these letters. He sharpened his number two pencil, preferring graphite to anything he couldn’t erase.
“Their first visit was last summer. When they crashed, I did what was necessary. They visited again this winter,” he scribbled.
Peter paused, chewing the pencil’s end between worn teeth.
“I built this so they could mourn their dead,” he declared, sketching a temple-like shape. “They seem pleased.”
He sighed heavily, hoping for just one genuine response.
“Before I join them, it’s time the world knows. These are the coordinates to the alien graveyard.”