It's during summer that I miss Father the most. During summer, he'd always let me start the burn offs with him.

We'd set massive fires, and it would burn all the dead vegetation back, leaving the ground clear for the next growing seasons.

In England, they hate fire. They only use it to warm the houses, never to burn anything back. English people just let the dead plants rot, and suffocate all the other new plants.

When I asked England why he didn't do burn offs, he got very red in the face and gave me a long lecture on fire safety, and why we should never, ever set fires on purpose.

I cried that night. It wasn't the first time, nor the last, but it's the one that stuck in my memory.

As soon as Newfoundland heard me crying, she crawled into my bed, and sat against the headboard, patting my head as I cried.

She stayed awake for as long as she could, but she'd been doing all my chores, - because I couldn't use a broom with my broken arm - and America had been dumping all of his chores onto them as well.

She'd been working non-stop all week, and she was exhausted.

I don't bother waking her. She deserves to sleep. I just curl up under her arm and cry softly. India must've heard me, because he came in.

His soft footsteps alert me to his presence, and I look up from Newfoundland's shoulder.

"Newfoun-" he stops speaking when he sees her asleep. His expression softens as he walks toward me, "What's wrong, Terra?"

I sniff, and wipe my eyes, "I miss my father..."

He clicks his tongue softly, "Come on Terra, Newfoundland needs her rest." He reaches out to me, and I take his hand, wriggling out from Newfoundland's arm.

I go to step onto the ground, but he scoops me up onto his back in a piggy-back. I rest my cheek on the back of his neck, his dark hair tickling my nose, as he walks me back to his room.

He navigates the dark hallways with ease, easily circumventing all obstacles in his way.

West Indies was fast asleep when we arrived, breathing deeply as he lay on his back, arms spread every which way.

India chuckled as he walked past him, "He can't sleep in a normal position, can he?"

I go to answer, but realise that it's a rhetorical question, and don't answer it. I'd learnt about rhetorical questions recently. England'd asked one, and I'd answered it. He had not appreciated my answer, and I'd gotten yet another lecture on appropriate behaviour.

The memory makes me let out another sniff, and India freezes, "Terra?"

I bury my face in his neck, mumbling out, "It's nothing."

"You sure?"

He puts me down on his bed, and then sits down. He leans against the headboard, just like Newfoundland had done. I sit too, curling up under his arm.

"Why doesn't England like me?" I ask.

India has to think for a second, "He doesn't hate you, Terra. It's just that he's given all his love to France, Canada and America. He loves them so much that there's no love left over for anyone else."

I nod, understanding his explanation. He pulls me up, and onto his lap. I lean against his chest as he strokes my back.

"Do you think you can go to sleep? We've got a big day tomorrow."

I want to correct him. No, it's not us who has a big day tomorrow, it's America and Canada. But I don't.

I shake my head softly, "I'm too awake."

"How about a lullaby?" He asks.

I nod. I haven't had a lullaby in years.

India smiles, "This one is from when I was little, before England was even born."

He sings in a language I've never heard before. The tune is soft, soothing me to sleep, and before I know it, my eyes are drifting shut, and my breathing is syncing with India's.

Before I fall asleep, I whisper, "Love you, India."