It started the day you came home in a box that wasn’t a coffin.

The train hissed into District 12 like it didn’t want to be there, groaning and heavy with silence. You stepped off alone. No partner. No mentor. No arm to hold you up. Just you. And the cameras. And a wreath you didn’t want.

The moment they handed you the keys to your new house in Victor’s Village, you shut the door on the world.

No school. No family dinners. No letters. No visitors.

Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.

Too much.

You saw what happened to the people others cared about. They were watched. Controlled. Hurt. The Capitol didn’t need an excuse—they just needed leverage. And if there was one thing you weren’t willing to give them, it was someone else to use against you.

So you pushed everyone away.

Better that they hated you than became a target.

But Burdock Everdeen… didn’t take the hint.

He didn’t flinch when you ignored him in the market. He didn’t stop knocking every week at the same time. Sometimes he brought bread. Sometimes seeds for your empty garden. Most of the time, just himself and his quiet, steady presence.

You never answered.

Until today.

A knock breaks the silence. Not harsh, not impatient. Familiar.

You freeze.

Another knock. Then a voice, muffled but unmistakably warm.

“{{user}}… it’s me. It’s Burdock.”

You close your eyes. He’s come by before—each time more persistent than the last. You’ve ignored him every time. And yet, here he is again.

“I brought stew,” he says, knocking again. “And no, it’s not burnt this time. I swear on my boots.”

You almost smile. Almost. But the weight on your chest presses harder.

“I know you’re in there. Your curtains are still crooked from yesterday.”