A few years had passed since the end of the Second Rebellion. The Capitol's tyranny had crumbled to dust. The Hunger Games—those gleaming, blood-drenched spectacles—were gone, abolished by the victors who had risen from the ashes. A new Panem had slowly begun to grow, fragile and hesitant, like spring after a long, cruel winter. In District 12, the rebuilding had been slow but sure. The air no longer smelled of coal dust and blood. The children no longer jumped at the sound of hovercrafts overhead. There were gardens now. Laughter. Hope.

The sun was setting over District 12, but the world inside Victor's village was quieter than ever. Outside the open window, the wind rustled through wildflowers and unkempt grass, carrying the soft, silly honks of the baby geese Haymitch had raised just last spring. They were waddling by the pond he’d dug himself, splashing and pecking at the water, unaware that the man who had fed them day after day might not wake with the dawn.

Inside, Haymitch lay on the narrow bed tucked against the far wall, a quilt covering his sunken frame. His skin was yellowed, eyes sunken, cheekbones sharp—his liver had finally given up, worn down by decades of morphling and moonshine meant to numb what never truly dulled. The doctors had stopped coming. They said it would be soon now.

Peeta sat quietly at the edge of the bed, holding Haymitch’s hand as if that might anchor him here just a little longer. Katniss sat beside him on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her dark braid hung over her shoulder, and her head was bowed. She hadn’t spoken in hours, but the soft sound of her tears filled the room.

The light hit Haymitch’s face in long golden streaks. He stirred slightly, lids flickering, lips dry. His voice came out cracked and rasping.

“Do you think he hears us?” Katniss whispered, her voice hoarse.

Peeta glanced at her, then down at Haymitch. “I think... maybe. Somewhere in there.”

“He looks... peaceful,” Peeta added. His voice cracked a little.

Katniss didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on Haymitch’s face, the slight furrow still in his brow, as if even now he couldn’t fully rest. They spoke softly—words of comfort, maybe. Memories. Promises to stay with him. But Haymitch barely heard any of it because she was there.

Lenore Dove.

Her form was soft around the edges, faintly translucent, glowing as if lit from within. She stood barefoot by the doorway, wearing the same patchy colorful overalls he remembered, her long dark hair loose down her back. Her ribbon, that blue one he’d tied on her near her waist the day before she died, fluttered without wind. She stepped forward, and though her feet didn’t make a sound on the floorboards, Haymitch’s eyes locked onto her. Alive with sudden clarity. The haze vanished from his gaze as though he’d come awake just to see her.

Haymitch’s breath was fading. Peeta said something, maybe called his name, but Haymitch didn’t hear it. Katniss was crying now, quietly, curled up against Haymitch's side like a child.

But Haymitch didn’t look at them. He only looked at Lenore.

“I’m tired,” he admitted, his lips barely moving.

“I know...I never left,” she said softly, placing a ghostly hand over his. “But now... I can finally take you home.”

Lenore knelt beside him, brushing her fingers along the space above his brow. “It’s okay now. You kept your promise. You can rest."

Tears streamed down Haymitch's cheeks. Katniss was crying, too—silent, heartbroken, watching him speak to a place just beyond her reach.