The room was quiet, too quiet. The fire had long since died in the hearth, and the only warmth left came from the half-empty bottles strewn across the floor. Haymitch Abernathy, 16 years old, slumped in the armchair of his Victor's home, swaying gently, empty-eyed and shivering despite the alcohol burning in his veins. Snow fell thick outside the frosted windows, muffling the world beyond into a lifeless hush.

He hadn't spoken to anyone in days. Maybe weeks. There was no one left worth speaking to.

His family had burned in their home the day he stepped back into District 12—just hours after he was released from the Capitol. The scent of smoke had clung to his skin, his hair, his hands as he dug through the rubble, screaming their names until his voice shattered.

And then Lenore. Sweet, clever Lenore Dove. His girlfriend. He had met her deep in the meadow where they used to sneak away before the Games, where the wildflowers whispered their secrets and the sun used to warm her brown hair. She smiled when she saw him. She kissed his cheek and told him he looked older, sadder.

He gave her gumdrops. Red ones. Her favorite.

She collapsed moments after eating them, the blood already trickling from her mouth when he caught her. Her body convulsed in his arms. Her voice was small and confused. She died in his arms.

President Snow had planned it all—every ounce of love left in Haymitch’s life poisoned, burned, destroyed. A punishment for his defiance in the arena, when Haymitch used the arena’s forcefield to outwit the Capitol. For living when he wasn’t supposed to. For showing them up.

Now the great Victor of the 50th Hunger Games was nothing more than a ghost of a boy curled up in a house far too large, far too empty, far too cold.

And then—soft footsteps.

He didn't register them at first. Probably his mind, again. The alcohol always made the silence talk.

But then her voice.

"Haymitch."

Across the room, in the edge of firelight that wasn’t burning, stood her. Lenore. Or something like her, perhaps a hallucination from Haymitch being drunk. She was pale and soft, wrapped in the blue patchy overalls she always wore when the days were warm and life was good. Her eyes were bright. Too bright. Her lips parted in a sad, knowing smile.