Flashes of wood filled my mind, until I recognized them to be the dark planks of the walls and floor of an old, rustic home. I had been here so often, yet still I did not know whose house this was. Through the window, I saw the field of corn and the forest that isolated the house from sight, and I finally wondered, why I was alone in a home far from others.

In my dreams of before, I had assumed myself to be alone. Now, however, I heard footsteps around me. The sound of their journeys across the floor indicated that the owners of the footsteps were heavier than me, but whenever I looked behind me, I only saw blurry ghosts of those I could not yet recognize.

Who is there?

I felt no fear of them. Instead, I wandered through the living room again, as I had done many times before, despite their presences. The inside remained peaceful, but for the first time, I regarded the small objects strewn about the room with careful intent. The roses that I had approached in the first dream were still full of vibrant life and were as always, bright, red, and harmless in this room of timber. Just like it had been in that dream, I was drawn toward them without conscious thought.

I touched the petals and felt their familiar texture, but now I noticed my own hand that caressed them. The roses were grand and powerful, in comparison to my hand, or perhaps, it was only my hand that was small and fragile. I had not noticed before, but everything in this room was bigger than they would normally be. The table and chairs were high, and instead of walking slow, I realized that my legs had only been short.

But the roses. They were so perfect and finely trimmed, and only one word could fill my mind when I regarded them now.

France.

When I remembered the word, the ghosts had solidified. The footsteps became people, and I could now see France and Britain, wandering through the house and so much taller than me. There was no doubt now that this was a memory from my childhood. Before it could proceed any further, hands jostled me by the shoulders.

In a blink, everything was gone and Russia's face filled my sight. The senses of the real world returned, and I felt my own body beginning to shake again. I heard nothing else but my own wavering breath for a moment, and smelled only our clean clothes and the cleaner that I had used on the floor.

His hands melted over my shoulders and glided over the bumps of my bones. He tried to look into my eyes, but I dropped them as they watered. When I hadn't said anything, Russia prompted me.

"You made a strange face," he said. "Did you remember something?"

"I-I don't know… I think I was there but… I don't know if it was me. All I saw was the house of my dreams… and nothing else that I hadn't seen before."

Russia murmured, "Then you were trying to remember from the start."

"Maybe but… it isn't much at all. I don't know. I'm alive there."

"This memory could be something after," Russia said. "Maybe you can try thinking of something before?"

I stopped shaking. "I'll try."

My hands rested over my head and I slid my cold fingers through my hair. My fingertips pressed into my skull, but no particular memory arose. I scrunched up my face, although it was difficult to search for a memory when I had no concept of when it had taken place. I waited for images to appear, but all I saw was black.

"I don't see anything," I exhaled. "I don't remember…"

"Nothing?" Russia hummed. "But if you died, you would not see anything. You would have no eyes."

I twitched. His words disturbed me to the core, making me question if my mind was only drawing a blank, or if the blackness that I saw was a true memory.

"What is in the dark that you are seeing?" he asked.

I closed my eyes. The light from the room made me see an orange hue instead of darkness. I ignored it and thought back to the house, to the time that came before that memory. The dark returned, manifesting itself as an experience without sight, sound, taste, touch, or smell. It seemed to be eternal, but then Russia's question echoed in my mind.

What is in the dark?

I felt something. Sickness- a kind of sickness that I had never felt before. It sucked everything away until I felt so thin. Yes, I could feel myself, light and emaciated, but I felt no hunger of famine. There was no hunger, yet there was another feeling of incompleteness. I wanted and I needed, but I could not think of what.

Russia's voice crept into the vision. "Do not be afraid, Canada. You do not need to do the shaking."

I felt his hands on my arms, then continued searching for rest of the memory.

There was something far away. I felt a pulling in my spine, but I could not move myself closer to it. It came to me instead, and it touched my sick skin. There was some calm, and I did not want so much anymore. I needed something from it, but I did not want to take anything from it.

There was a second thing. What thing? It was hard to describe, but they were warm, although I could not feel that they were warm. They seemed warm however, and fresh, like blooming flowers in spring. I wanted the freshness and the warmth, but not so much.

Yet.

Russia's hands clenched me. It became a bit uncomfortable, but it kept me from diving too deep into the memory. In holding my arms, I could feel my real, thick, and healthy arms that were not toothpick-thin and rotted like those in the memory. I was alive; the past was no more.

The memory continued on, on unstoppable roll of film behind my eyes. Eventually, as the presences came and left, I grew more desperate. The need grew larger, and it was a monstrous need, twitching and snapping its fangs within its cage. I felt my feet touching a flat surface, although my feet had never felt like this before. Peeling and incredibly small, yet somehow they took me across the floor closer to the warmth and freshness.

There was only one near me. The other was a faint pulse somewhere away. It did not matter, however, when I only needed one. I found the presence and fell over it. Under me, it pushed and writhed; those were hands which were smacking against my illness, causing more pieces of me to fall away. I felt my hands too now, skinny and tearing at the presence. Strips of the warm freshness came off. So utterly warm. I placed each piece over where I had withered away, feeling so full in those layered spots.

But it wasn't enough. More I took, although weak sounds were drumming in my ears. I could not hear well, nevertheless, there was a distant screaming that my ears could detect. The memory had not cared. I bit into the presence, and liquid warmth drained into me. Yes, this I had needed. There had not been enough of this warmth within me.

I pawed and found a new piece. I wanted. I needed. When it had been torn free, I knew were it would fit in me. The other presence was near, but I did not care. The warmth and freshness were mine and the presence below me could not escape.

"Shh-shh…" Russia's hand relaxed and ran over my back. "Do not be scared. It is over now."

But the memory was not over. One new piece snapped into place, then, the darkness exploded away and I could see again. Red was everywhere in this dim room, over the sheets, pillows, and splattered on the wall and floor. Sprawled out barely pawing against me now, was Britain. His scarlet-streaked hand covered an eye- his missing eye, and on that forearm, skin had been scraped away. I saw his bright muscle, oozing and increasing the amount of red.

Someone grabbed me and tried to pull me away, but I had wanted the red. There was already a meaty bite mark highlighted on the muscle by the shoulder of the arm that he bent over his head. That was were I had been draining him before.

Stop! My thoughts shrieked over the memory.

I could not hear well, but I saw Britain's mouth snapping open and closed in his screeches of fear and pain. His other hand pushed vainly against me, but I saw my own hands, digging and prying at the exposed skin of his chest. His shirt was torn into bloody tatters once I became certain that the greatest of warmths and fresh things were hiding within him.

Stop! No! No! Stop!

There was no stopping this memory. I bit into the chest as I ripped away skin and muscles, swallowing the hot blood. I squirmed and fought against the memory, only to feel arms locking mine to my sides. Intense fear overcame me to be restrained as I fought frantically to stop the monster. Helpless, I screamed with all of my might, only to realize the rawness of my throat that had already been there.

I had been screaming for longer than I had known.

I saw Britain's rib bones and I tried to grab them, but then the memory came to an abrupt halt. There was a very quiet bang, and then firing pain. A hot pain that ripped through my sick body, again and again. Until I collapsed into the red I had created, no longer able to move, and never to see again.

The dark returned, and the presences came and went. I felt utter pain, but then no more. I could not move and could not react to the need, and for a very long time, I starved alone with the most unbearable and tormenting pain inside me. Trapped, immobile, unable to produce the smallest of sounds. I twitched in the dark, and felt the lumps of my own detached limbs around me.

I snivelled and trembled, just as the senses of the present time arrived back to me. I heard yelling and banging, which had not been the state of the world that I had left. I came into consciousness confused, but soon became aware of the situation.

Russia was no longer touching me. I searched for him and found him standing in front of me, bristling before France and Britain.

"I did not hurt him," he muttered.

Britain and France tried to get past him, but Russia moved fast and blocked them. I saw the side of his face, noticing anger drawn over it and directed towards them.

"Why did he scream?" Britain cried. "Answer me!"

They were so frightened for my sake. In their eyes, I saw emotional blindness: an utter distrust for Russia and an illogical desire for vengeance that did not need to be fulfilled. They believed that he had hurt me and made me scream, and could see no other reality but that, despite Russia's protests.

I rose, tears spilling from my eyes, to grab Russia and pull him sitting back beside me. I held and dove into him, my back shielding him from whatever harm would come to him. The yelling ended abruptly, and France whispered to Britain, "He's not wearing his disguise. Look."

I knew they were staring, but I did not look at them while I shook violently and clung to Russia. My lungs were jolting in a spasmodic manner, preventing me from breathing. In terror, I begged silently for someone to help me and to calm my muscles. Russia held me tightly without a word urging him to, trying to ease me.

The lingering images of the memories still distressed me. I sobbed and collapsed, limp and struggling to breathe. Russia dragged off my glasses and set them on the table, relieving me of the barrier between us. Russia said nothing, and did not push me off no matter how clingy I became. He did not care about the tears I smeared against his shirt now with the lack of glasses, or how loud I sniffed and wailed. He tried to shush me, over and over, as long as it would take until I truly heard him.

"Canada," Russia whispered into my ear. "It is over. Everyone is okay."

With a wavering voice, Britain breathed at last, "Wh-what happened?"

The comfy platform under my ear moved. Russia sat up stiff and straight to address the two of them, with a noticeably aggressive bite in his tone.

"Why did you not tell him before?" Russia uttered. "Now he became knowing of this in the worst time. You could have told him a long time ago, but now he is more stressed than he needed to be."

France gasped, "Do you mean to say-"

Russia said, "He remembers."

"What?" Britain cried shrilly. "How?"

"It was not hard to figure out," Russia muttered. "You were the suspicious ones. It was only hard for Canada to be realizing the truth, because everything made him so stressed. But now he thought of the thing his brain did not want to, and it hurt him."

I could not speak with the agony of my lungs and my neck. I shuddered and whined, but heard all that was said. I did not want Russia to be so hostile towards them, but his points were valid. On a normal day, this discovery would have been easier. After months of stress, fear, and depression, however, the memories had landed a powerful blow upon me.

At that moment, it felt impossible to stand alone. I needed someone to take care of me. I did not want to be strong anymore; someone had to protect me, but Britain and France had failed me. I attached myself to Russia, for it did not matter to me that Britain and France were watching.

"So he knows…" Britain moaned. "No… no, Canada was never supposed to know…"

Russia reached away and took the Canadian flag blanket. He wrapped it over my front and his, establishing a fluffy layer between us. I assumed it made Russia feel more comfortable with my behaviour, but I enjoyed the addition in any case. My extremities were becoming so cold, but now I could curl in my fingers and warm them.

"Russia," Britain continued in a feather-brushed voice. "You aren't angry at him, are you? I mean, when he told you that he was not America."

"No. Canada is my best friend." Russia ruffled my hair. "He was so kind to me, and even when I was angry or scared, he was always good. I will do anything to make him happy again."

With the blanket covering him, he leaned against a pillow pressed up to the arm of the couch. I saw him through flooded eyes, then closed them and dove down, burrowing into the solid warmth. Russia murmured to me, his words gentler than I could have imagined, and so for some moments, I cried more profusely. But he remained all so comforting, and I sank, falling into his hold without any concept of caution.

Russia whispered. "Kind Canada… So innocent. You are innocent and do not deserve this."

He brushed at the tears slipping from my eyes, trying to dry them although they came out so fast. They crashed into his moving thumbs and he gave up, putting his hands onto my back. I felt them sliding over my tense muscles, pressing and circling to relax me. And while my body did loosen up, the sorrow overtook me. I sobbed into Russia, limp and twitching, and he shifted up to let me come closer.

"We should leave," France was heard whispering to Britain.

Britain did not protest, understanding that they had no role to play now. There was nothing they could say or do to comfort me. Later, they could see me, but not now. For the first time, they understood Russia's loyalty and intentions, knowing that he was the best and the only one who could care for me now.

The door clicked shut when they left. I felt a relief in their absence, and Russia seemed to calm down in our privacy. The targets of his anger had departed, and now he was left with me.

"Think of everything and cry now," he murmured. "Cry until there is nothing else to cry about, yes, Canada? Can you do it? I will be here."

And so I thought back to the memories again. So fresh they were that I was shocked as profoundly as the first time. Russia placed his hands over my ears, warming them and holding my head. I wailed and forgot about how loud I was, since Russia did not mind it. He only encouraged me to be louder, touching my side and insisting, "Let everything leave you now."

Awful sounds left me: a song of sobs, moans, and screams. The volume of which numbed my ears to anything else; I did not hear the door or footsteps open again, but someone must have come in, since Russia had gained possession of a bag and a box of tissues.

"Here." He nudged me with a tissue and opened up the bag beside his hip on the cushion. I accepted it, relieved to blow my nose at last. Now, my sniffles lessened and I did not feel so messy. Naturally, my continued mewling and crying filled my nose again, but Russia became accustomed to providing me a tissue whenever I raised my head.

"What happened?" Russia prodded carefully, sweeping his hands over the ribs of my back.

I could not say a word. My heated throat released a whine, so he dipped his head and sighed, "When you can, tell me. It will help you."

The routine continued for a long while still. As time passed by, my crying grew quieter, although my shaking remained just as violent. I blew my nose and lay my face back into his chest. I let Russia touch my back, rubbing around the bottom of my shoulder blades were they ached.

So wonderful it felt, when I could sense his caring being expressed in each skilled caress. My hands curled by my own face and I choked into Russia, but he stroked my hair and shushed me. He was so patient, but I had never observed patience within him before towards others.

I had seen him interacting with smaller nations with irritation, and to powerful ones with antipathy. Russia did not like to waste time, but to rather get to a point quickly. He abhorred compromise, believing that someone was always right and that someone was always wrong. I comprehended his distaste for America, Britain, and France, and that I had transcended his normal treatment of other nations.

Unintentionally following the same track of my thoughts, Russia said, "You are unique, Canada. So many think you are like America and not as special, so they forget you. But I think that you are much more special than America and the others. I will think this even if no one else will."

Minute-by-minute, my movements became smaller. Tears leaked from my eyes and I kept using up the tissues, but soon I would be able to voice at least a few words. He waited and continued massaging and petting me, until I was ready.

It took a long time to tell him the details of my memory. After each sentence or a half, I kept breaking out into silent hiccups or sobbing anew altogether. Russia hugged me when I spoke, helping me with the words I stuttered on. I was given enough time to go over each chunk of the memory, until the shock of it faded away and it became of light as other tragic occurrences.

"Because everything is okay now, with France and Britain..." Russia whispered, "the pain will go away. Hmm… Well, no matter what, I will make sure that you forget the pain even if the memory is yours forever."

His bent legs pulled up and in, becoming triangles that confined me on either side. I was reminded of how I had held Britain so close and carefully to me before, when he had broken down when we had officially lost America. I realized that he must have felt like I did now, enclosed by the warmth of a larger person. I felt utterly safe here. Protected, and comforted by hands that could be both strong and gentle for my cause.

When I had finished the memory, I turned over my head and waited for my tears to slip out from my eyes on their own. After they had, I could make out a clock across the way on a stand. Two and a half hours had already passed since I had been watching Soviet cartoons with Russia.

Since I had quieted down significantly, Russia knew that I would hear him.

"Canada," he told me. "You do not deserve to be sad."

I shifted my hands back up near my face again.

"You make me sad to see you sad," Russia whispered. "I understand what you were talking about before."

A whimper was emitted from me. Russia sighed and stroked my hair, then continued speaking.

"I feel this because you were kind to me. Ahh… Kindness can be cruel, da?"

He lay both his hands back onto my ears and cheeks. His thumbs grazed under my eyes, and they found only few fresh tears now. It was easy to keep up to the rate in which they fell, so his hands stayed and dried every tear that came.

"I would do anything to save you from this." Russia pressed in a fleeing tear. "Anything in the world, so that nothing would hurt innocent Canada."

Even after I had stopped crying, Russia held me for a little longer. I was the one to pull away, to finally look at Russia's face after all this time. Under his eyes and to his cheeks, I noticed fading red streaks. I blinked in surprise, but they remained printed on his face like paint.

"R-Russia… were you crying?" I gasped.

"A little," he admitted. "Because I felt your sadness."

"I didn't know… I'm sorry…"

"I do not mind."

I sat and threw my legs over the side of the couch. Russia put the blanket back and copied my position, although he stared at the used cups that remained on the table.

He asked, "What do you want to do now?"

"I'm not sure… I still haven't remembered dying… but I want to know more. I burned, but why? I feel like I should know now, just to get it all over with."

Russia stood up and started to back up to the doors to America's side. "Let us talk to them then. If you remember and you are scared, I will be here, okay? But yes, it is important to know everything."

I went with Russia through the unlocked door. Again, they could not be found in the living room, but I went up to the basement door and knew instantly that they were inside. I carefully checked that the lock was unturned, and that I heard their voices below.

I opened the door that revealed the stained stairs which led down to the lighted basement. They heard me and paused what they were doing. France called up, "You shouldn't come down right now, Canada! We're… You know."

"J-just that, right?" I responded, making no move down the stairs. "Please don't… chop him up."

"It's not necessary right now," Britain said. "But it will be later."

He was being noticeably honest now. To imagine that in the future, however, that they would cut up America like any other body, frightened me. I faltered, unsure if I was strong enough to ask what I had been meant to.

Russia proclaimed, "Canada has some questions for you. We will talk when you are done!"

Russia took me by the arm and led me to America's couch. There, we sat and waited for their return. It was not long before they came upstairs and washed their hands and knives. Then, they broke off and sat in armchairs, both looking across and towards me. Their faces were slightly scrunched, already dreading what they were obligated to say.

"So you remember…" France sighed. "Oh, I'm so sorry… I regret our actions so much, and I would have never took part in it if I had known that it would hurt you."

"H-huh?"

Britain murmured, "The guilt is ours… I am sorry that you became a victim of our mistakes."

I squeaked, "Are you saying that my death was- was your fault?"

Their mouths fell closed and they observed me with confusion.

Russia explained, "Canada does not remember this part yet. He is not remembering how he died."

"We're too far to go back," Britain sighed, a gust of sorrow escaping his legs. "I will tell him the truth. Canada… You know well how Europeans treated the Native People of your country. It was our fault for not being considerate of how it would affect you. We loved you, but we were foolish. A fire had been started in a settlement, but none of us had expected that you would have been playing in one of them. I can't be sure whose fault it was, but we must both take responsibility for the horrendous things that we have done in your country."

Britain dipped his head and turned it away. He grimaced and closed his eyes, but France picked up from where he had left off.

"We would have never been able to recognize you… if it weren't for that bear that always followed you around. I saw him scratching at the ashes of where the birchbark houses had been. There… there was a child's body. One that had been inside and had gotten stuck underneath... And when that bear refused to leave it, I knew. It was my sweet, little Canada…"

"My Canada…" Britain said, "who our own battles and skirmishes had harmed. We realized then, just how destructive we had been. For a time, we needed to tone down our distaste for each other. If there was one thing in common between me and France back then, it was that we both loved you."

Russia held my knee and leaned in close, concerned by my silence. "Are you okay?"

Something was coming back to me. Everyone went silent and I felt France's and Britain's eyes boring into me. I bought up my legs and hugged them, quivering as my vision was replaced with orange and cinder. I shook my head and closed my eyes, a violent shiver running down my spine as sounds reached me. There were vicious crackles above me, then I saw the orange collapse down onto me.

I had been aware of the heat and thickness of the air before, but then every nerve of my body sparked into indescribable agony. I shrieked curtly and kicked out, widening my eyes and trying to remember where I was now.

I was too weak alone. Russia hugged me and let me hide my face into him as I returned to the memory. I jolted when I recalled the pain, but he held me tighter and reminded me that it was over. My tears and whimpers were here again, but the memory lost its shocking strength when I replayed it in Russia's warmth.

I sniffed and rubbed away my tears, slipping away from Russia and looking back to them.

"So then you tried t-to bury me," I whispered. "But I moved..."

"Yes." Britain still cringed along with France after seeing my suffering. "France wrapped you in a blanket and showed you to me. The bear had followed him all that way, so I had understood without France needing to explain. We were going to bury you, but then you moved, and I was afraid of what would happen if anyone else had seen you. People were so religious, you know… so we took you somewhere where we could figure out how to cure you in peace."

"I saw a house," I murmured. "Some corn and a forest…"

"Yes… that's it," he conceded. "We kept you in the attic. Later, it was a coffin in the ground, to keep you cold. But that was only after we had… done to you what we want to do with America."

France said, "Britain's tests healed you a little at times, but when he knew that the cure was ready, he threw it over you in the coffin. It was amazing to watch… He had cured everything at once, and there you were… our little Canada, blinking himself awake as though he had taken a long nap."

Tears ran down my cheeks. I covered my face and remembered then, a time when France had lifted me out of a hard place. It had felt like stone, but I had never seen what it had been. The memory included only a flash of France carrying me while other hands were caressing my face and hair. Then, I had been held for so long that I had fallen asleep again.

"That is everything," Britain sighed. "I mean, you know everything now."

Russia checked on me, rubbing my back and squeezing my shoulder for a reaction. I dropped my hands and tossed my head in his direction. He patted my face and raised my chin, trying to put me into better spirits.

"Are there any more questions?" Britain concluded.

"Yes, I have questions," Russia said. "How did America die?"

"According to Canada," Britain replied, so that I wouldn't have to, "America fell off a cliff."

"Okay. And how do you cure him?"

"So, I can only cure nations, just so you know. Now, I search for plants that can heal us. Each plant though, can only heal a certain thing. To create an effective potion, I have to put everything together and use it at once. That's why it's been taking so long, but I'm almost done. Only a few ingredients away."

Russia nodded slowly, understanding. He then inquired, "But why are you not doing this now?"

"Because... " Britain sighed, his words becoming more faint. "We want to chop off America's limbs so that Canada is safer, and we want to be the ones to do it so that he does not have to."

"I will do it," Russia smiled, far too eagerly for Britain's taste.

"Absolutely not! If you were the one to do it, America would end up hacked up to bits!"

France said, "We will do it, but when Canada is ready. It is a stressful and hard decision, of course."

Russia asked, "How dangerous is America? I still don't understand why he wants to hurt Canada."

"Not just Canada," Britain said. "And right now, you are the one that he would most like to get his hands on. He wants to cure himself, you see, and to do that, America would take parts of you and add them to himself. Essentially, your blood, organs, and skin. Whatever he needs to bring himself to life."

Russia widened his eyes. "When he went up the stairs to me, this is what he wanted?"

"America can sense where we are, although not regular people. He's started to be able to regain some feeling ability, so he can feel his own position and he can feel us, if he manages to get so close."

In finally understanding the questions that he had posed me, Russia raised his brows then lowered them. "So, he knows where I am now…"

France said, "America is looking in your direction right now, and trying his hardest to get up here, since you and all of us are so close to him. We're teasing him by being here."

"That's why we want to get on with the dismemberment," Britain sighed. "He is so damaged and rotten that his body heals faster and faster every time. Those shot wounds added to the ability, and those are nearly healed up themselves already."

"Oh my god," I breathed. "That's so fast…"

"Should we do it then?" France asked.

I tensed up and my lip trembled. Russia touched my back again and looked over me to them, pressing, "I think you should give him a break. This is too soon after you told him everything in bad time."

Britain took a moment to mirror the guilt on France's face, because both had been so anxious again and had ignored my stress. His face opened in surprise at a sudden thought. He gasped, "Wait, there was something else that I had not told you! Something that you will like. Two plants were near that house, but I did not go there yet since you wanted to follow me wherever I went. I was planning to just find them further south in America on my next trip, but I can just collect them now. It is likely that they are still there. Now, I still cannot use them until the potion is complete, but you will feel better, won't you?"

I straightened up and smiled. "You'll be done faster then?"

"Well… maybe not so much faster. Some days were shaved off, but it still comes down to the last two plants in Europe. I hope that this could serve as some good news to you, however."

I clasped my hands and felt the excitement clenching my nerves and shaking my muscles. I nodded with honest appreciation and insisted, "Oh, I really am happy to hear that… Just knowing that you are closer makes it all feel better."

Russia dropped his hand and pondered aloud, "What are these special plants like? I have many plants in my big home. Can I be helping in some way?"

"Usually," he answered, "they have a strange feeling. It takes experience to detect it and to ignore their effects. Invisibility, diversion… Some go underground so that they are hard to get near. Most live for a long time, and they don't seem to reproduce. They just appear… sort of like we do."

"Do they look very strange?" Russia asked.

"Not always. They can have unique colours, but most appear like normal plants."

"Okay, I understand," Russia said. "Then I do know what you are talking about. I have one plant like this at home."

Britain nearly leapt out from his chair in excitement, but then contained himself and sat back down. The shine of elation was in his eyes nevertheless, as he demanded, "What does it look like?"

"A fiery sunflower." Russia smiled. "The most beautiful sunflower that I have ever seen. And it has been mine for hundreds of years."

The most beautiful sunflower.

I had heard him say these words before. I thought back, searching for the memory of when I had heard it. It was not when I had been with him, but when I had listened to his voice during a Skype call.

It had been when Russia had been telling me a story to fall asleep. I had never properly heard the story, but I remembered that Russia had mentioned sunflowers and someone's death.

"The flower on your table!" I cried.

"Mmm." Russia kept smiling, but now the smile faced me. "You loved to look. I love looking at it too, but I wonder if it is good? I let a hungry person eat the seeds one time, but he died. I was afraid, so I never let anyone eat it after this."

"No, no," Britain replied, "that makes sense. It kills normal people when they enter their bodies. That is definitely something special… But you have no idea about what it does, do you?"

"No… but I know that it does not die. I mean from age or damage. The flower needs a little good soil and water, but it does not need so much. When I cut the flower in half, I have now two more beautiful flowers. I discovered this by accident."

"Two?" Britain blinked. "The separated half grows from the stem down?"

"It grows down, and it heals up." Russia nodded. "It is good for having a little indoor garden."

"You have many?" Britain gasped, his hands tightening their grips on the arms of the chair. "An-and they can grow stem down?"

"Yes… and yes to the other thing," Russia affirmed.

Britain looked so flustered with his excitement, as though he did not know where to put it. He stammered, "I-I've never known any of these plants with these capabilities. Can-can you send me one? I must know what it does…"

"Okay," Russia agreed, although looked to me while saying this. "I will ask some people to take what is on my table. It will become a gift for America. They will be paid to take good care of my flower, and it will come here fast. I hope you can use it; my friend Canada will be very happy if you can."