Here's the 2nd theme. I don't think I will write them orderly though. I'm trying the 2nd person POV here. Hope I don't fail too miserably.

This is an idea for a fic I've scrapped. I don't think it will ever get written, but this is just the glimpse of what it might be about.

Disclaimer : I do not own Hetalia


2. Ghost

Your new father is nice. He never gets mad. When you trip and break the decorations, or when your hand slips and the plate shatters, he never gets angry. He scolds you with a smile and a stern tone but never raises his voice, all the while cleaning the mess you make.

The room he prepares for you is everything a child ever dreamed of. The shelf is filled with picture books, the box is full of toys, and there's a window overlooking the backyard, straight to the tree whose branch holds a handmade swing.

You get homesick at the first nights and miss your brother so badly, but after a few days the house begins to feel like a home to you.

Everything finally seems to be getting better.

You have a home. You have a father who loves you maybe a bit too much he spoils you rotten, but you are a child so such matter does not concern you.

You are eight and have just spent your first month in your new home when the name slips your father's lips. You don't turn around or answer but when you finally turn to face him, he seems upset that you didn't. Some shirt you wear have tears on them and some have food stains you don't remember inflicting.

Then you are ten and notice that the game console has a save data you didn't make and the untouched squirrel plush toy has drool stains on it. When you crawl under your desk to retrieve your fallen pencil, you find scribbles and drawings on the hidden spot of the wall which you never made.

You turn twelve in what seems to be such a short time and your father's smile grows everytime he looks at you. You score average in your school report and you do well in soccer. You and your father stash the old toys safely in the attic and replaces picture books with books about heroes and pirates and space. You never question your father about the origin of the books even though they are most certainly not brand new and your father is not that poor to afford some children books.

When you hit fourteen you start to question the loving nickname. But when you ask your father, he smiles to you like there's nothing wrong, pinches your cheek like he always does, and says, "Because it is your name, silly Lovi."