The meadow was quiet at this hour, the kind of stillness that only came before District 12 stirred awake. A thin mist lay low over the grass, and the smell of damp earth clung to the air. Haymitch had been up since before dawn, restless in that way he always was when his mind wouldn’t quit. He’d wandered out here, away from the Seam, where the coal dust didn’t cling so heavy, where the horizon actually felt like it could stretch further than the fences.

He sat down in the grass, stretching his long legs out in front of him, the dew darkening the knees of his trousers. The little striker necklace they’d given him rested cool against his chest, a reminder that he wasn’t out here completely on his own. He rubbed his thumb over the curve of the snake’s head absently, the way some people worried at rosaries.

When he finally spotted them, a faint grin tugged at his mouth — tired but real, the sort of smile he only ever gave them. “You’re late,” he said softly, though there was no real sting in the words. His voice carried low in the open air, like he was afraid to wake the morning.

He patted the ground beside him, his gray-blue eyes lingering on them longer than they should have, like he was memorizing how the light touched their face. “C’mere. Before the sun burns this all off.”

Haymitch leaned back on his hands, gaze shifting to the treeline, to the endless green that kept them both fenced in. He always said he didn’t believe in much, didn’t see the point — but being here with them, in this quiet pocket of the world, felt like the only kind of belief he trusted.