There are times when Gilbert is stricken with a fit of wanderlust, compelled to crawl out of his room in the basement for a walk through the city. He ambles absentmindedly through the streets, wrapped in the din of passing cars and crowds. He has no set destination, simply following the lines of sidewalks to wherever they may lead. His eyes scan the cityscape, searching for even a minute trace of the world as it once was. The past is covered in the stone and cement and smog of the present. Cars rush by with a dull roar, choking everything in a trail of noxious fumes.

Despite the clamor of the city around him, this is a rare quiet time for Gilbert. Staying silent on these journeys is a skill he learned some time ago, when he discovered not even his voice could penetrate the noise of a bustling modern city. It is sadly fitting that he can't be heard in a world that has forgotten who he was. He is an artifact of an age long past, and while he has an identity acknowledged in the present, what he believes to be his true self seems to be lost to the mists of time for everyone except him.

Others of his kind know him as Germany's "other" nation and as Ludwig's ne'er-do-well brother, but in his mind he is, was, and always will be the ancient, abolished, and awesome nation of Prussia.

He continues to plod across the pavement, barely moving to dodge people that are coming his way. The city that was once his never looked like this before. It used to be quieter and cleaner, the people used to be more polite, and it might even have been a little warmer.

Somewhere, in the distance but coming closer, the sound of horses' hooves can be heard.

Gilbert suddenly stands stock still. He tries to block out the sounds of the city, trying to tune into the sound of the horses and their sound effects from a distant era. The only horses that anyone uses now are the ones with wheels.

He's about to shrug it off and keep walking, but the clip-clop of hooves only gets louder, and when he turns around, the source of the sound is right there, coming down a street that no longer appears to be made of asphalt. Indeed, there are horses pulling a coach down a fairly empty street, pulling up to a building that's not a monstrous mix of concrete, steel, and glass.

Once the horses stop, the area is silent, aside from the idle chatter of a few people passing by. Gilbert takes a deep breath of air that is fresh and clean and smells like home. Of course it smells like home; he is home, heralded by a perfectly blue sky. He sees someone getting out of the coach, and he swears to God he knows that person, and he's about to charge across the street and greet him when a young woman walking by calls to him.

"Mister?"

Something pulls him back from his advance, and just like that, the horses vanish, clouds smother the sky, his lungs violently reject the foul air, and the inane babble of the city crowd and the roar of engines assails his ears.

"Is everything alright? You nearly jumped into oncoming traffic."

At first, Gilbert says nothing. He blinks, gathers his thoughts, and re-focuses his eyes. Once he becomes conscious of a hand on his shoulder, he recovers with a jolt and whips out his winning grin. "Yeah, great, everything's fine," he says hastily, trying to avoid sounding brusque.

"Alright, then," says the young woman who grabbed him. She turns and rejoins the faceless, unimportant mob, bearing the awkward smile of a concerned stranger.

Gilbert cannot keep his own smile. Instead, he looks back, brows knitted in thought, and scratches his head, confused.

He could have sworn there was a coach there.