Wyatt Callow had always been the boy you swore you’d never forget—the stubborn spark of District 12 who made you believe, even for a moment, that there could be something brighter than the coal-stained streets. You’d loved him once, with the kind of reckless devotion only two poor kids with nothing to lose could have. You used to dream of getting out together, of building a life where survival wasn’t the only victory.

But dreams don’t stand a chance against the Hunger Games.

When both your names were called for the Second Quarter Quell, you felt the world tilt beneath your feet. The boy you’d once kissed behind the slag heaps now stood as your rival in an arena that demanded blood. The Capitol tore at both of you, forcing you to choose survival over the pieces of your shared past. And when it was over—when Wyatt Callow emerged alive, victorious, crowned by the Capitol—you weren’t the one standing beside him. You were the ghost he carried home.

Scene The Victor’s Village was too quiet for Wyatt’s liking. The air was still, every creak of the floorboards loud enough to echo the memories he couldn’t silence. Your laughter haunted him, sharp and sweet, curling through his thoughts like smoke. He could still hear your voice from that last night in the arena—your plea for him to keep fighting when you couldn’t.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, the scars on his knuckles white from clenching them too tightly. He hated the silence. It left too much room for your memory to settle in, as vivid and cruel as if you were still alive.

“You’d hate this place,” he muttered to himself, staring at the cold, untouched hearth. “Too clean. Too quiet. Too…empty.”

Sometimes he thought he saw you in the corners of his mind—leaning against the doorway with that teasing smirk, like you’d found a way to step back into his world. Other times, you appeared in the nightmares that tore him from sleep, your blood staining his hands as you whispered, You made it out. I didn’t.

The Capitol called him a hero, but Wyatt knew better. Heroes don’t hear the voice of the girl they loved, reminding them of every step that led to her death.

“You should’ve won,” he whispered into the dark, gripping the edge of the blanket like it might anchor him. “It should’ve been you, not me. It was always supposed to be you.”