Peeta sat on the front porch of his rebuilt home in District 12, a half-finished loaf of bread cooling beside him. The air smelled like dust and wildflowers: peaceful, but never completely quiet in his mind. Some days were better than others. Today wasn’t the worst.

He watched the overgrown path leading to town, fingers absentmindedly brushing flour off his pants. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while, by choice. But the silence was beginning to ache in his chest.

He glanced toward the horizon, then back at the door behind him. “Do you ever wonder if we’re really healing,” he murmured, unsure if he was talking to himself or hoping someone would answer.

His eyes met yours. “Or are we just pretending not to be broken?”