If you were to look deep into the heart of Eastern Europe, right in the middle of the small nation of Latvia, you might come across a sleepy town with a sizable cemetery right on its outskirts. Within that cemetery, if you would care to notice, there would be a gathering of people dressed in black and carrying roses the color of blood. In the middle of the ring of mourners you would happen upon a freshly-dug grave, the casket not yet in the ground.
Amidst the group of people, if you would care to look- which you probably won't, and that's understandable; you probably have better things to do- you might happen to notice a scrawny, pale person dressed in red and gold, partially hidden from sight by the black umbrella being held to block the falling icy droplets. The person is a young man, aged fifteen, by the name of Raivis Galante. Of course, no one at the wake cares enough to ask who he is, all of them caught up in their grief, and most of them assuming he belonged.
That was something Raivis had found he was very good at, acting like he belonged somewhere with his citizens, when he didn't. In cases like the funeral, everyone simply assumed he was supposed to be there; perhaps being that man's son, or that woman's nephew, or that girl's brother, or that boy's cousin. It didn't matter what they thought he was, as long as they didn't ask questions.
If you were to turn your attention back to the mourners- or rather, attempt to,- you would probably be surprised to see them gone already. Raivis waited until the last of his citizens walked away before stepping closer to the freshly-filled-in grave, barely noticeable noise coming from his footsteps. He stopped just before the upturned earth and looked around. The sight before him was not a pleasant one.
The cemetery in which he stood wasn't grand, nor was it miniscule. It didn't contain the grave of anyone particularly famous, and most of the grave were recently added; for they were the graves of victims of the war. It hadn't been very long ago that Germany and his swastika-bearing troops had invaded Raivis's beautiful land, and it seemed everyday there were new names to add to the death tolls. Mainly because there were. Because of the rapidly growing number of deaths, a lot of recent graves weren't even marked. All they had was a stone or the like, never an inscription. And this graveyard was no different.
But Raivis knew who every single one of them was. Being that he was the entire country and therefore could feel the presence of every single one of his citizens, he felt each death that happened. The only difference between the deaths was the pain they caused. The closer to the victim he was, the more pain he felt, so he often tried to distance himself.
Once he was sure that everyone was gone, Raivis spoke to not only the grave before him, but to all of the graves surrounding him; all of the graves in his nation. To all of the people he had lost, especially those who had been forgotten.
"Es tevi mīlu."
I love you.
And with that having finally been said, Raivis Galante began to make his way back home; the rain still driving down its icy tendrils, trying to freeze and corrupt a heart that refused to give in. The heart of a true Latvian.