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There were days when Italy would tell him about her childhood, about when he lived with Austria, stern even in his rare displays of affection, when Hungary would dress him in her clothes, and when a boy as blond as ears of wheat was her first love.
They were vivid stories, memories that felt a little like his own, that he listened to with pleasure mixed with melancholy.
Finally, the fateful question would come, "Do you remember now?"
And he would look at him, so full of expectation that it wrenched his heart. Germany wished he could give him a different answer.
"No, Italia. I'm sorry."
Even though the answer was always the same, Italy never stopped smiling. He had learned to be patient. What did it matter if another hundred, four hundred years passed before Germany remembered? They were together. That was enough.
"It's okay, Lud. I'll wait."