Disclaimer: I in no way own Hetalia
"Hello, old friend," Alfred F. Jones whispered. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" he asked of no one in particular. "I brought you flowers, but that's nothing new," he said, placing a bundle of the purple blossoms on the ground.
"I know that you already have a bunch of them," he continued, looking around him at the field of forget-me-nots, "but I feel like it means a lot more when someone gives them to you. Not that the meadow isn't beautiful, of course," Alfred amended, drinking in the view of the sky.
"Things have been a bit hectic lately, but everyone's acting more or less the same so nothing much's really changed…" the blond man said in an informative tone, again to no answer.
The wind picked up, scattering a few leaves and bringing a slight chill.
"Oh, I think a storm's coming," Alfred observed. "Sorry, but I have to go now. Wish I could have stayed for longer, but I'll try and visit again soon," he said as he stood up and brushed his pants off before walking away.
A few petals were blown off of the bundle of forget-me-nots, pushing up against the worn gravestone. It was so old that one could scarcely make out the writing on it, but alas, the grave marker of Davie, 67 years old, was all that remained of the cemetery that had stood there hundreds of years prior, even with all other information worn off.