The peacekeeper gate slammed shut behind her with a final metallic groan, and for a moment, Lenore Dove just stood there, barefoot, hollow-eyed, half-starved, her wrists still red where the cuffs had bitten into her skin. The sky above District 12 was soft with the earliest hints of morning, violet and gray with streaks of rose creeping along the edge. Lenore Dove hadn’t breathed real air in weeks. The scent of grass, mud, and morning dew hit her all at once like a forgotten memory.

Weeks.

Weeks since they dragged her off the reaping stage for singing outlawed verses, songs too old, too angry, too true. Weeks since she’d watched her boyfriend, Haymitch Abernathy step between her and a peacekeeper’s raised baton, his voice cracking as he shouted her name.

Weeks since he’d been reaped in Woobine Chance's place.

And now he was home. A victor. If you could still call him that.

She’d begged her uncles, pleaded, really, to let her go out, just for a little while. Just to the meadow. She needed to see something that wasn’t steel bars or mildew-covered walls. And by some miracle, they’d let her. The grass of the meadow was slick with dew when she stepped into it, pale stalks brushing against her ankles, the air thick with the scent of wet clover and ash. It was quieter than she remembered. No birdsong. No wind. Just silence, too still, like the earth was holding its breath.

She was halfway to her favorite rock by the lake when she saw him.

He was already there.

Haymitch sat slouched in the grass, back turned toward her, elbows resting on bent knees. He looked like a ghost. The outline of his body was too still, like he hadn't moved in hours, like maybe he hadn't wanted to. His shirt was too thin for the chill, and his hands were tucked deep into his sleeves. Even from behind, she could see how much weight he’d lost, his frame all bone and shadow.

Her breath caught.

He had left Victor’s Village before sunrise, walked the whole way across broken ground to this spot. The same spot he’d once walked her to, hand in hand, back when the world was still soft around the edges.

It was the first time she’d seen him since the Games. Since he was reaped. Since his house had burned down with his mother and little brother still inside. And he didn’t even turn when she approached. Just sat there, like the silence had swallowed him whole. Every step closer twisted the knife in her chest. His house had burned. The thought repeated, unbidden. His mother. His little brother. Gone. And still he’d come here.

"Haymitch," she whispered, her voice breaking.