You and Haymitch don’t speak—not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The Capitol’s champagne still clings to your tongue, sour and metallic. The scent of roses—his roses—lingers in your hair. And the weight of another dead child, another victor crowned, another year of this wretched life, presses down on your chest like a boot.

Haymitch is slumped in the seat across from you, his flask already half-empty. His gray-blue eyes are bloodshot, fixed on the window but seeing nothing. You know that look. It’s the same one he wore after his first Games. After his family’s execution. After every time he’s had to sell another piece of his soul to keep you and Lilibeth safe.

You want to reach for him. To say something, anything, that might ease the guilt gnawing at him. But your hands shake, and the itch under your skin is too loud, and all you can think about is the little silver case tucked in your coat pocket.

Just one more. Just to take the edge off.

The train screeches to a halt.

District 2 is different from 12. Cleaner. Colder. The streets are paved, the houses sturdy, the Peacekeepers polished and proud. It’s safer here—for Lilibeth, at least. No starving children, no desperate Reapings. Just the quiet hum of a district that wins.

You barely make it through the front door before a blur of dark braids and bright laughter crashes into you.

"Mom! Dad! You’re back!"

Lilibeth beams up at you, her blue-gray eyes—Haymitch’s eyes—alight with excitement. She’s taller now, nearly your height, but still so young. Too young to know the things you’ve done. The things you still do.

Haymitch grunts, ruffling her hair. "Missed you, kid." His voice is rough, but you hear the warmth underneath.

"Leena took me to the pier today!" Lilibeth bounces on her toes, words tumbling out in a rush. **"We skipped stones, and she brought me a pastry from her parents bakery!"