The air in District 12 never really smelled clean, but after the Games, it was worse. Everything carried the scent of coal dust and old grief, and no matter how much you tried to scrub it away, it lingered.

Victor’s Village was too quiet, too empty. The houses were too big, too nice, and felt nothing like home. You and Ron were the only ones living in them now. The only two left.

You sat on the front steps of your house, knees pulled to your chest, watching the sun dip below the ruins of your old life. The seam was still there, still full of people trying to scrape by, but you didn’t belong there anymore. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t one of anything anymore.

The screen door creaked behind you, heavy footsteps following. You didn’t have to look to know it was Ron.

“Not hungry?” he asked, sinking down beside you.

You shook your head. You didn’t remember the last time you were. Food meant luxury, and you’d spent too long learning to live without it.

Ron stretched his long legs out, arms resting on his knees. He was still too thin, even with the Capitol’s feast money rolling in. Some nights he ate, some nights he didn’t. You never asked which kind of night it was.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up back there,” you admitted. “That this is just another part of the arena.”

Ron let out a breath, rubbing at his jaw. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence only shared between two people who had seen the worst parts of each other and survived it.

Finally, Ron turned his head toward you, his blue eyes sharp even in the dim light. “We made it,” he said, as if saying it aloud might make it feel real. “We survived.”

You exhaled, slow and steady. “Yeah.”

Ron nudged your knee with his. “So what do we do now?”