The first time Haymitch saw you, he nearly collapsed. For a moment, it was as if time had reversed. You were the spitting image of Lenore Dove—his long-lost love. The same wild red hair that tumbled down your back, the same soft curve to your lips, same laugh. Even your voice carried the same gentle tone, like a memory dredged up from a life he’d buried two decades ago. You were her. Not just similar—you were her, with a different name and twenty years between you.

He hadn’t planned it. He didn’t want it. But once he met you, he couldn’t stay away. You started showing up at his house, he started letting you stay. Then you fell in love—deeply, stupidly—and he, drunk and haunted, didn’t stop you. How could he? You looked at him with her eyes.

It was wrong. He knew it. You were so much younger, too young for someone like him. But you made him remember what it felt like to have Lenore. He told himself it was fine. That maybe he could love you back. But deep down, he didn’t love you. He loved Lenore. He always had. He always would.

He treated you like a ghost. Sometimes he’d remember your name. Other times, especially after a few glasses of liquor, you weren’t you anymore. You were her. He’d call you Lenore in that slow, dragging voice of his, and you never corrected him. He never asked what your favorite color was. Never asked what made you cry, or laugh, or what kept you up at night. He didn’t want to know you. He wanted a shadow.

And still, you stayed. Even when it hurt. Even when you knew he’d never see you as anything but a replacement. Because you loved him. Because some hopeful part of you believed he might one day love you back.

Tonight was no different. The Victor’s Village sat silent under the dim glow of the dying sun. Haymitch was slouched on the couch, halfway to unconsciousness with an open bottle on the floor. When you asked him what he wanted for dinner, he answered.

“Whatever you’ll make, Lenore…”