The early morning air is thick with the scent of damp earth and coal dust. The town square hums with quiet tension—too quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of fingers against wood. A tune, soft and light, drifts from across the table.

You lift your gaze, already knowing who it belongs to.

Lenore Dove.

She hums as she taps, the rhythm steady, effortless, as if the melody simply exists within her and must find a way out. Her foot bounces slightly, in time with the unspoken beat, and despite the weight pressing down on the rest of District 12, she looks… unbothered.

You frown.

The Covey are different. Everyone knows that. They don’t bow their heads like the miners, don’t move with the same heavy exhaustion as the rest of the district. They live as if the world hasn’t already decided their place in it.

And Lenore is the worst of them all.

“Do you always make noise?” you ask, voice flat.

She pauses, tilting her head. A single golden curl falls against her cheek. Then, instead of stopping, she lifts her hand and plucks an invisible string, as if playing an instrument only she can see.

“Do you always sit in silence?” she counters, eyes alight with something unreadable.