"England? Can I really have this?"
"Of course, America. I want you to keep it safe, okay?"
"Yeah! I promise!"
America stared at the small, clear music box in his palms. It was shaped like a grand piano, and in gold paint it was lightly covered with music notes. You could see the worn, golden workings on the inside. He sat by England, lying on the hospital bed beside him, struggling to stay alive. The line on the monitor went flat. A single tear landed on the smooth, transparent surface, and America turned the crank on the precious piano one more time.