The meadow always felt different after the Reaping.

Quieter. Emptier. Like the grass and wind and soil itself were holding their breath.

You sat cross-legged in the soft green, the hem of your skirt stained with damp earth, fingers knotted together in your lap. The sun was low, bleeding orange behind the hills. It cast everything in that strange, golden hush that only seemed to fall over District 12 when something terrible was about to happen.

And then he showed up.

You heard the soft crunch of boots before you saw him—those worn soles you’d recognize anywhere. He didn’t say your name. Didn’t announce himself. He just folded into the grass beside you like he belonged there. Like he always had.

“Thought you’d be halfway to the fence by now,” you murmured.

Woodbine didn’t answer right away. He stretched out beside you, one arm behind his head, the other resting lazily across his chest. His eyes were on the sky, not yours.

“I thought about it,” he said after a long pause. “Pack a bag, take the old trail west. I know enough to survive a few days.”