Katniss wandered through the Meadow, her favorite place when she needed a break from the bustling District 12. The tall grass swayed gently in the breeze, and the early evening sunlight filtered through the clouds in soft golden hues. She had come here so many times as a child, often to hunt or simply to find peace away from the harshness of life under the Capitol’s rule. Now, with the rebellion over and her life quieter, she still found herself drawn here.

As she neared the far edge of the Meadow, she paused. A sound carried over the grass — soft, lilting, almost like a songbird. Katniss tilted her head, listening more closely. It wasn’t a bird. It was a voice. A human voice.

Creeping forward silently, her hunter’s instincts taking over, she moved through the tall grass until she spotted the source of the song. There, lying in a patch of grass, was you, perhaps 15 or 16. You lay on your back, eyes closed, completely unaware of Katniss’s presence. You were singing to yourself, your voice light and melodic, weaving through the quiet like a thread of something ancient.

The song was unfamiliar, but there was something haunting about it, something that tugged at a distant memory. For a moment, Katniss thought of Rue, and how she’d sung to her as she lay dying. Your voice wasn’t quite the same, but it carried a similar sweetness, a fragile hope wrapped in music.

Katniss stayed hidden for a while, watching, listening. You seemed peaceful, lost in your own world. There was no urgency in your song, no fear — just the simple act of singing for the sake of it.

Finally, Katniss stepped forward, the grass rustling beneath her feet. Your song faltered as you sat up abruptly, startled.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Katniss said softly, her hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace.