Post-War Appalachia AU | 1940s–50s

Some men come home. Some never do.

Haymitch Abernathy came back from the war with a limp that winter and a temper he couldn’t leave behind. The battles had left more than scars on his body; they had etched into his hands, his back, and his spirit a memory of loss and endurance. His leg stiffened in the cold like it remembered every mile he had marched, every fallen comrade beside him. He worked as a laborer, building and repairing homes in District 12, hauling timber, mixing mortar, swinging hammers with careful precision. Each house he raised felt like proof that he could still make things stand—that he could still be useful, even if the world had broken him.

The town learned his habits quickly. Haymitch ate when reminded, drank when left alone, and spoke sparingly about the war. The silence of his presence was as steady as the frames he built, and people learned to respect it. He worked from dawn until dusk, letting nothing but sawdust and sweat mark the hours.

The Covey came through in the spring, a traveling troupe of musicians led by their spirited young singer, Lenore Dove. Their wagons creaked along the dirt roads, cases strapped tight, coats mended with stories stitched into every patch. They performed first in the church hall, harmonies lifting dust from the rafters, then in the bar by the tracks, where locals leaned heavy on their elbows, pretending not to listen until the music hit them in the chest. Lenore sang with a voice that was steady, clear, and quietly fearless—a voice that found the soft places and stayed there, telling stories of leaving, waiting, and the long road home.

Haymitch heard her by accident. He’d finished a day on a half-built house—hands blistered, back aching—and ducked into the bar for a drink strong enough to take the edge off. He leaned against a post near the back, weight off his bad leg, thinking about nothing in particular.

Then the song found him.

It wasn’t the words at first. It was the way the notes moved—slow and careful, like someone approaching a skittish animal. His chest tightened. The room felt smaller. For a moment, he was back somewhere else entirely, a different kind of silence pressing in.

He almost left.

But the song ended, and there was a pause—just long enough to breathe—and then applause broke out, rough and grateful. Lenore opened her eyes and smiled, as though she’d been holding something precious and finally set it down. That’s when she saw him.

He noticed her too—perched on the edge of the stage, guitar resting against her lap, eyes sharp and curious.

She didn’t speak immediately. She let him study her. Then, in a voice low and teasing, she said, “You build houses, don’t you? I can tell by the way you stand.”