"I have no change for it all, beautiful girl."

The days began like any other for her. She had to wake up because of her screaming digital alarm clock, had to take a cold shower to finally stop dozing off, had to eat some over-toasted toast... Sometimes she had to go to meetings of their heads of state to discuss some little detail about her economic policies, and make a mean comment about the new neighbourhood in the Euro zone from time to time.

Once a month, she visited her friends in small parties. There was no United States, United Kingdom, Italy, Germany... Hungary. Only Alfred, Arthur, Feliciano, Lovino, Ludwig.

Elizaveta.

She remembered how Ludwig would always sit between two chairs, facing another one. Today, he sits with Feliciano to his left side, facing Kiku. But the chair to his right is now empty. Permanently empty.

There were those who thought the chair was a nuisance , an obstruction of passage for others. However, others looked at the old wooden seat with affection. With longing.

But regardless of the emptiness of some secret salon's chair, life went on. It had to continue.

Time couldn't stop. Not even for the so called immortals.

The times have flown beyond the horizon, and three years have passed. Three years without Gilbert Beilschmidt.

The albino was the only one who knew when he was going to be gone, but said nothing to the others. And alone, he left. He left no body, no tears, left no letters. Only the longing in the hearts and memories of those who knew him.

There was no funeral. It was the only request that Gilbert would have made before vanishing. Whether it was a joke or not, his wish was respected.

"You can't prepare a funeral for someone who's not supposed to die, right?"

"People like me don't die. We just fly away."

He was brave. She never knew how he could he speak such thing in such a sincere way without crying

In a Winter day, Elizaveta ended up in Leipzig. The air of the city reminded her of her friend, throughout its history as a great contribution to the German academics, the European music and to decisive battles.

She smiled. He was too fond of that city. When the riots began chanting their desire for freedom and the end of the Cold War in increasingly powerful voices, growing into roars, Gilbert was there. Weak, hungry, tired. Maybe he had no strength to lift a sword, but his spirit burned like the eternal flames of the phoenix. His energy was contagious to his people.

He no longer lived to show how strong he was or how he could subordinate anyone to his orders as in his golden age. He lived to destroy the fruit of what he started in the late nineteenth century, the fruit of his revenge and his hunger for power. He lived to show that there was no such things as West or East, but a world without borders, without walls. Without the Cold War.

An air of freedom changed the course of snowflakes that were falling on the Hungarian. The wind deceived her, pretending to be a breath from the Prussian. The nostalgia made her paranoid. At night in her hotel room, she swore she could hear him playing the flute. She swore she could see him wandering the beautiful streets of Leipzig.

It was late afternoon when she decided to look at those old buildings again and, from afar, she heard the melody of that flute. The piper was a skilled man, he had fast fingers that quickly moved from note to note. It was almost like a bird that was born to sing.

She followed the sound of the music and found herself at a busy square. But people passed by and hardly noticed the flautist performing there. Maybe he had been there for some time. Still, she approached him – a man covered by nothing but a thin jacket and an old cap – and threw him ten Euros.

Immediately, he stopped playing and looked up at the strange paper displayed among mere pennies in the little box that he probably used to keep his flute. He took off his sunglasses and continued to stare at the ten Euro bill as if not believing in what had just happened. His eyes travelled from the feet of Elizaveta to her green eyes.

He was a moderately tall man. Slim. His pants seemed old and patched; clearly a beggar. But his eyes... They were the eyes of an old friend.

He quickly put the flute in his pants' pocket and took the bill. "I have no change for it all, beautiful girl," the strange piper commented, handing it back to the Hungarian who could not react. "Unless you're really desperate to hear a specific song."

"Gilbert...? "