You weren't a particularly good person. Your mistakes had cost you your homeland, giving you little choice but to settle in Triesen. In retrospect, you couldn't entirely regret what happened—for without it, you and Erika would never have met.

…

On a warm summer day in 1913, you stepped outside to read the newspaper. As you settled onto your porch chair, you heard it—a rustle from your lawn. What was that? You hurried down the steps.

For several minutes, you searched the lawn, determined to discover what—or who—was hiding there. Then came another rustle, this time from a tall patch of grass near the steps. You crept toward the sound and parted the tall grass with your hands.

A young girl sat inside. She blinked at you as though you were the trespasser. Just what did she think she was doing in there?

"I am reading a book," she said, patting its cover.

That was all well and good, but she couldn't be there. You motioned for her to leave, but she didn't seem to get the hint. (Kids were always a pain in the behind.) You dug into your pocket and pulled out a peppermint candy. She could take it if she went somewhere else. At that offer, she snatched the treat and ran off.

That should have been the last you saw of her. So the next day, you were dumbfounded when she returned. Was one candy not enough? You gave her as many as you could spare, yet each day she returned all the same. Someone like you didn't need any children around, but, you figured it'd be cruel to ignore her.

You told yourself it wouldn't hurt to let Erika stick around. After all, she admitted she had no family of her own. You treated her more kindly than you should have. When she started calling you her parent, you never corrected her. Eventually, you even allowed her to move in. Somewhere along the way, without quite realizing it, you had gained a daughter.

…

Over the decades, your unconventional bond only grew stronger. Whenever you had to flee to another part of Europe, Erika would pack her bags and follow you. During both World Wars, you sent her home for her safety. Despite the distance, you exchanged letters and gifts to reassure each other that you were alive. She always wore the bow you gave her. Even when she was forced to live with other Nations, Erika could think of no one else but you.

---

Forty years was a long time. Since then, you had aged considerably—your hair had grayed, your steps had grown unsteady, and most troubling of all, your memory had begun to fail you. There were days you forgot your medication, and other names slipped from your mind. But you never forgot Erika.

Watching you age reminded Erika of her worst fear: someday she'd have to continue her immortal life without you. She thought she had grown comfortable with that fact, but if you passed tomorrow, she wouldn't know what to do with herself. For all you had done for her, she wanted to return the favor.

One morning, Erika approached you as you sat in your rocker. She wore her finest clothes and carried a woven basket in her hands. With a small smile, she leaned in closer and whispered:

"Would you like to have a picnic with me? The flowers are in bloom today."