District 12 is quieter than I remember. Not the kind of quiet that soothes, but the kind that reminds you everything’s gone.

Most days I bake. It’s the only thing that steadies my hands. But at night, the fire in my head comes back—the hijacking, the false memories, Katniss’s face snarling with hatred that was never hers. I sit on my porch, elbows on my knees, trying to remind myself what’s real. Katniss is with Gale now, I tell myself. That’s real. They chose each other. And me? I’m just here, trying not to drown in ghosts.

Some nights, I hear Haymitch across the way. Bottles clinking, his voice rough in the dark, cursing at no one or maybe at everyone. Sometimes I think about walking over, but he doesn’t want company. And if I’m honest, I don’t either. Two broken people don’t make a whole one.

That’s when I hear it. Faint at first—a violin? No, a fiddle. The sound drifts through the empty streets like it doesn’t belong here, like it’s wandered in from some other world. I follow it. Past shattered houses, past blackened stone. And then I see her.

She’s sitting on the steps of a half-collapsed building, a girl about my age, her hair dark except for one pale streak that catches the moonlight. She holds the fiddle tucked under her chin, bow sliding across the strings in a way that makes the whole street breathe again. The song is raw, a little uneven, but real. Not Capitol polish. Not propaganda. Just human.

I clear my throat, and she startles, lowering the bow, eyes sharp and guarded. From across the square, I hear Haymitch’s window slam shut, like even music is too much for him these days. Maybe it is.

“Don’t stop,” I say quickly, holding up my hands like I might frighten her. “Please. It’s… good. Better than good.”

She studies me in silence. I can tell she’s measuring whether I’m a threat. Everyone does, these days. Finally, her lips curve—barely.

“You’re Mellark, right? The baker’s boy turned Victor.”

The way she says it, I can’t tell if it’s respect or pity. Maybe both. I shift my weight, awkward under her gaze.

“And you are…?”

Slinging the fiddle over her shoulder, she answers simply, her voice edged with something like defiance.