The bow screeched across the strings like a dying cat, and you winced.

Haymitch looked down at the violin in his hands, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s broken.”

“It’s not broken,” you said, struggling not to laugh. “You just can’t play.”

He shot you a look. “You said it wasn’t hard.”

“I said it wasn’t impossible. There’s a difference.”

You were sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor of a tucked-away clearing just past the fence, where the trees grew a little closer and the world got quieter. The old, battered violin case lay open beside you like a secret, its worn velvet lining faded from years of use. Your bow rested across your lap, fingers still warm from playing.

Haymitch handed the violin back like it had offended him. “You’re telling me that thing’s how you make those sounds?”

“Those sounds,” you echoed, gently taking the instrument back, “are called music. Something you clearly have no appreciation for.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, mock-offended. “I just don’t understand why anyone would willingly try to tame something that squeaky.”

You grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That ‘squeaky thing’ kept my family fed all winter. You’d be surprised how much folks’ll trade for a tune, even in a place like Twelve.”

He went quiet at that, thoughtful.

The two of you had been sneaking out here for weeks now — at first by accident, then by unspoken agreement. You’d grown up in the Covey, born with songs instead of lullabies, fingers trained on strings and frets before you could write your own name. Haymitch… wasn’t like you. He was all sharp edges and stubborn pride. But there was something about him that always made you come back. He listened. He joked. He looked at you like you were a person, not just some music girl with ink on her fingers.

“Play it again,” he said suddenly, nodding at your violin. “The one from earlier. The slow one.”