Germania was concerned.
Recently Ludwig had been spending his time outside, frolicking in the dandelion fields. This was normal behavior for a young boy. However, he... talked to himself. He acted like he was playing with another little boy. And this was certainly not normal behavior for a young boy.
Whenever Germania questioned Ludwig about it, his grandson would always reply, "I'm just playing with Gilbert, Opa!". And with that he'd scurry off, a little twinkle in his eyes.
Ludwig also had taken an interest in the portrait on the wall, of the little boy with white hair and deep red eyes. The one Germania didn't talk about. But Ludwig...Ludwig could talk about it for hours. On and on, about his little buddy. He'd sit in front of the painting and babble eagerly, as if conversing with it. And, considering his already erratic behavior, he probably was.
Germania also did not believe in ghosts. Most definitely not. Ludwig didn't, either. Ghosts were the strange entities, translucent flying beings that children made up stories about to scare their peers. Ghosts were malevolent creatures who seemed to do nothing but scare people, harm people, do horrible things to people. Little boys did not do such things.
Gilbert did not do such things, Ludwig assured Germania. And yet, Germania already knew. For not all ghosts are bad. Some merely miss their friends. Some merely miss their family. Some merely miss a little brother they never met, for their life was taken from them, a tiny flower was plucked too soon.
But flowers can be replanted.
And the things that are gone, the things that are taken, are not lost forever.