The meadow outside District 12 is quiet, brittle with frost. You sit cross-legged in the tall grass, your hands red and trembling, but you don't care. The Victors’ Village stands behind you, empty except for one house. Yours. And Haymitch’s.

You won the 73rd Hunger Games. But Snow made sure you understood what it cost.

He didn’t take you. He took them. Your family. Your person. All of them. Buried without names, without farewells—just because you lived when you were supposed to die.

"Snow lands on top," he’d whispered in your ear after the cameras cut. You can still feel his breath like acid on your skin.

You sit in the cold because the silence out here hurts less than the silence inside.

A twig snaps. Footsteps approach.

You don’t need to look. You know who it is.

Haymitch lowers himself beside you with a grunt, boots dragging through frost-bitten grass.

“They never tell you the part where coming home is worse,” he says quietly.

You clench your fists. “They said I won.”

He lets out a dry, humorless breath. “Winning’s just surviving long enough to regret it.”

You finally glance at him. His eyes are tired. Broken in the same places you are.

“I should’ve died in there,” you whisper.

He unscrews his flask and hands it over. You take a swig. It burns.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes distant. “Me too.”

The silence that follows is heavy. But not lonely. Not anymore.