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The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, but the bakery was already closed for the day—sold out an hour ago, in fact, though Peeta hadn't had a chance to so much as sit down since. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, measuring out flour, portioning sugar into covered bowls, lining up tins, and setting aside what he’d need for tomorrow. The anniversary of the end of the Hunger Games always brought more customers than usual—some looking for comfort, some just for a warm roll and a quiet place to sit. Ten years had passed, and still, the scent of bread could calm a town that hadn’t entirely learned how to forget.
Rye was slamming pans around in the back sink like they’d personally offended him.
“You don’t have to take your frustration out on the sourdough tins,” Peeta called mildly over the clatter, reaching for the clipboard of orders. “They didn’t sell themselves.”
Rye only grunted, elbow-deep in suds and more than a little tired and eager to go home. Understandable. Delly would be waiting for him with their two boys, and they lived two blocks down in a cozy corner house with sunshine-yellow curtains and crayon murals on the wall.
Peeta made a note to pack up a few jam rolls for them.
It had been two years since their parents retired and took the housing offer from the district—small, tidy row houses just past the train station, built for the town’s oldest merchants and community keepers. It was strange to imagine them there, sipping tea with the retired principal or the silver-haired woman who used to run the community house, trading gossip on garden yields instead of market prices. Graham, now firmly in charge of the bakery, had three boys of his own, but they were still in soft shoes and couldn’t roll a decent pastry to save their lives. Peeta could hardly believe it; he remembered standing on a crate at five, elbows dusted in flour, thinking his hands would never be big enough to knead dough the way his father did.
His mother had been on him to get married for the better part of ten years now, and not kindly. There was nothing gentle about her voice when she brought it up—only that same sharpness she’d always wielded like a rolling pin, as if the very idea of him being unmarried at twenty-five was a personal insult. “You’re not getting any younger, Peeta,” she’d snap. “Do you want to die alone with only bread crusts for company?” He never answered. Just smiled, light as air, and ducked out the door the first chance he got.
It helped that he had his own apartment now. She couldn’t barge in without climbing three flights of stairs and buzzing past Thom, his roommate and by then, Peeta usually had enough time to vanish. He didn’t miss living under her roof. Not the shouting, not the sighs, not the look she used to give him when his drawings cluttered the table. Even now, after all these years, she carried that same air of disappointment like a second skin.
His space wasn’t much—just a mid-sized room with his clothes in one corner and scattered painting supplies in the other—but it was his. He share small apartment with two rooms with Thom, who’d been living there first and barely noticed when Peeta moved in. Thom was older, a miner who’d aged out of the Community Home, and had made it clear early on that kids were never going to be part of his story. He kept to himself, worked late shifts at the mines, and didn’t mind the smell of paint or the early mornings. In Peeta’s world, that made him the ideal roommate. No yelling. No expectations. Just quiet. Peace. And space to breathe.
He rarely cooked at home. Madge insisted he eat breakfast and dinner at the bakery, and truthfully, he liked it better that way. Warm bread, constant company, quiet dinners at the end of long shifts. No lunch to speak of—they nibbled on scraps all day, anyway.
It was a good life. Simple. Steady. Peaceful in the way he could have imagined when he was a boy.
He had just finished wiping his hands on a towel when a knock echoed from the back door—firm and deliberate, not the tentative rap of tradespeople or the hurried tap of neighbors. He glanced toward the counter where Madge usually perched with a book and a sharp look for anyone trying to cheat them on grain, but she was nowhere in sight.
Another knock.
Peeta turned off the faucet, wiped the last of the soap from his hands, and made his way to the door. The knob was a little sticky, the way it always was at dusk when the humidity curled up from the fields and pressed against everything. He pulled it open with one hand, blinking against the shift in light—
And froze.
The world didn’t stop—but his breath did.
Katniss Everdeen stood in the golden hush of the setting sun, framed by it like a painting he could never get quite right. The light spilled across her shoulders and tangled in the wisps of hair that had slipped free from her single braid, soft curls brushing her cheeks, her collarbone, glowing gold against the olive tone of her skin. Her eyes—still that silver-steel shade—lifted to meet his, cool and sharp as they’d always been. She was just as beautiful as the last time he saw her. Maybe more.
Peeta’s hand tightened slightly on the door.
“Hi,” she said, looking behind him for Madge.
“Hi Katniss!” he said too loudly before he could stop himself.
Upstairs, a loud thump followed by a chorus of boys shouting echoed through the beams, and he winced.
Of course, he knew she still traded with the bakery—they had more than enough meat for their daily consumption, not just squirrels but pheasants and the occasional wild chicken too. But it was always Madge who handled those exchanges. The two had been friends for years. Still, with the thumping upstairs and what sounded suspiciously like Graham’s oldest yelling “You cheated!” at the top of his lungs, Peeta was fairly certain Madge wasn’t making it down soon.
Another crash upstairs. He winced, then looked back at Katniss with a sheepish smile, trying—and mostly failing—to contain the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Sorry,” he said, voice a touch too bright. Don’t be weird, Peeta, he reminded himself. “Madge may not be able to come down for a bit. But if you want, I can take care of the trade with you.”
Katniss didn’t answer at first. She just looked at him, long and assessing, like she was trying to figure out what had changed—and what hadn’t. He straightened, too fast, and wiped his suddenly damp palms on the side of his trousers, blinking.
“I have three squirrels,” she said at last.
“I’ve got two loaf of nut breads,” he offered quickly.
She narrowed her eyes, the way she used to when someone tried to short her for a loaf of barley oat.
“I also have cookies?” he added, voice hitching a little.
“One loaf of bread,” she replied, cool and steady, “and cheesebuns. If you have them.”
“Oh, yeah—of course!” he said, almost too enthusiastically. “Let me just—uh—let me wrap them up for you.”
He turned too fast and nearly tripped over the mop bucket Rye had left behind. His brother, scrubbing a tray in the sink, didn’t even look up before thumping the back of Peeta’s head with a damp rag.
“Relax,” Rye muttered, smirking.
Peeta elbowed him without heat, grinning now but trying not to show his elation. He hadn’t seen her up close like this in three years. Every time she’d come to trade, he’d catch only glimpses—her back as she walked away, the swing of that single braid slipping down her shoulder, vanishing into the fog of the square.
He wrapped the loaf and buns carefully, double layering the paper as if it were something fragile. He added a cookie, tucked just beneath the cheese buns, and folded the bag tight with practiced fingers before hurrying back to the door—
Only to find Madge there, talking to Katniss already, a smile playing on her lips like she knew something he didn’t. And behind her stood Rye, arms crossed, looking every bit the smug idiot he always did when he thought he was being clever.
Peeta’s jaw tightened. He shot Rye a glare—go away, idiot—and brushed past both of them to hand Katniss her bread. She took it from him, fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary.
“Here,” he said, a little too quickly, a little too eager. “Everything you asked for. And a cookie, just in case.”
Madge gave him a look—one of those pointed, meaningful ones that had a hundred questions packed into one raised brow. He ignored it. All of it. Just kept his eyes on Katniss and the way her lips curved in something that might’ve been gratitude… or amusement.
The bread had just changed hands when Madge touched Katniss lightly on the elbow. Her voice was light, but there was warmth beneath it—genuine, nostalgic, like a thread fraying after being knotted too long.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” Madge said. “For my eldest’s birthday. Just a week from now. It’s been too long since we’ve talked for more than a minute.”
Peeta swallowed.
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.
Katniss didn’t look at him. She just gave a low, noncommittal hum, like wind against canvas. “I’ll leave a gift,” she said instead, and her eyes shifted past Madge, landing squarely on Rye.
She stared at him—unblinking, unhurried—and then spoke in a voice so soft it should have vanished in the golden dusk. “Be careful around fire,” she said.
Then she turned and walked away, braid swinging lightly against her back, gone before the silence even had a chance to settle.
It was Delly’s shrill voice that broke it. “What does she mean by that?”
Her eyes were round, frantic, her breath already shallow as she stepped closer, hands trembling slightly. “What does she mean—fire? What fire?”
Rye gave a strained chuckle and shrugged. “Everdeen’s just weird, Del. You know that.”
Peeta scowled. “Hey!”
But Delly was already halfway to the door, hand pressed to her chest as she darted out after Katniss.
“She’s already gone,” Madge said quietly from where she stood, watching the road. “You know she never waits.”
Delly’s hands shook as she pressed them flat against the countertop, trying to ground herself—but failing. “Remember three years ago?” she cried, voice breaking. “Many people saw her walking around town—always ending up in the train station. She barely goes there, Peeta, never has, but she looked so agitated. And then the bomb blew! That old shell they said was from the war—it just went off. But she was there. Before. Like she knew.”
Peeta felt his blood chill in his veins.
Delly kept going, her hands flapping helplessly in front of her like she could swat the memories away. “And five years ago, that old mine shaft collapsed, remember? Nobody cared—it was abandoned! But she came running into the market, said there were kids trapped down there. And there were. Idiot boys playing miners. She knew, Rye! How did she know?”
Her voice cracked, and then dropped to a gasp as she turned toward Rye, pale as flour.
“Oh my gods,” she breathed, “what does she mean you need to avoid fire?”
Peeta looked at his sister-in-law—her cheeks pale, breath coming fast, hands pressing into her sides as if she could hold her fear in by force—and for a moment, he could say nothing. Delly wasn’t dramatic. Delly was safe. So seeing her panic like this…
“She just means be careful,” Rye said, laughing too much now, running a hand through his hair. “I work with ovens all day. She probably means that.”
“She doesn’t say things without meaning them,” Delly snapped, eyes darting again to Rye. “Why would she say that now?”
“She’s a woods girl,” Madge said faintly, like she was trying to convince herself. “They say strange things. It's just—just a habit. She grew up half-wild. She didn’t mean anything. Really.”
But her voice cracked around the last word.
It was then Graham came clomping down the stairs, half-dressed and clearly just now catching wind of the commotion. He looked at them—Delly wringing her hands, Peeta standing frozen, Madge pale, Rye trying not to look rattled—and he frowned, brow furrowing deep.
“What’s going on?” he asked. But his voice was low, too calm, too flat. Haunted.
Delly turned to him immediately. “Katniss said to be careful around fire. To Rye. She said he needs to avoid fire. Why would she say that? Graham, why?”
“She’s odd,” Graham said softly. “And maybe she just… saw something. But it doesn’t mean anything. She’s just strange. That’s all.” But his eyes didn’t match his words. They flicked to the window, to the darkening road where Katniss had vanished.
Delly turned desperately back to Madge. “You have to talk to her. Please. Find her and ask her what she meant.”
“I—” Madge’s voice faltered. “I’ll try. She won’t be back for three days, I’ll talk to her, I promise.”
Only then did Delly take a full breath, shuddering as it passed through her lips.
“I’ll be fine,” Rye said, clearly trying to shift the mood. “I’ll just keep clear of open flames. Noted.”
“Idiot,” Peeta muttered, elbowing him again. But it didn’t land with the usual warmth. His stomach still hadn’t settled.
“I should go,” Rye said after a beat, reaching for his jacket. “Need to check the boys haven’t set the house on fire or something.” He gave a short laugh—too loud, too forced—then froze, the weight of his own words catching up to him.
The silence pressed in again until Graham cleared his throat, an awkward attempt to cut the tension. “I’ll pack up the leftovers and send them over. No sense letting anything go to waste.”
Peeta remained standing at the back door, the paper bags still warm in his hand, his mind spinning not with what Katniss had brought—but what she had taken with her when she left.
When Rye and Delly finally left—Delly still glancing over her shoulder as if Katniss might reappear at the doorstep—it was Graham’s turn to fidget. He lingered near the table, clearing already-clean plates, then finally asked, voice too casual to be anything but tense, “What exactly did she say?”
Madge waved him off, folding a napkin too neatly. “Oh, not you too, Graham. Don’t tell me you're going paranoid now.”
But Graham didn’t smile. “Ten years ago,” he said, voice low, “as soon as the train left with our last tributes, Katniss Everdeen—all of fifteen years old—stepped onto the stage, grabbed the mic and told everyone to go to the meadows.”
Madge blinked at him, but he kept going.
“My grandmother spat at her. She thought Katniss was being a lunatic and went back to her shop. So did others. A lot of them returned to their homes and businesses.” He ran a hand over his face. “But somehow, six thousand of us followed her—past the meadows and into the woods. I still don’t understand why. Your father, the mayor went. Some Peacekeepers went, even helped us remove the fence. Even my mother didn’t argue. We all just followed.”
He swallowed hard. “Hours later, our district was bombed. Entire blocks were flattened. They said it was a punishment from the Capitol because of the rebellion. Only a small part of the Seam and the meadow survived the blast. Everyone else—mostly merchants and townspeople—died that night.”
His voice cracked. “Half our population survived because of her, Madge. So no, I don’t think I’ll be dismissing anything Katniss Everdeen says.”
Silence fell over the room again.
“I could go to the Everdeens’ tomorrow,” Peeta offered quietly. “Talk to Mrs. Everdeen. Or Prim. Just to see if they know anything more.”
Madge shook her head. “Katniss doesn’t live there anymore.”
“I know. Still—” He shrugged. “I’d feel better if I talked to them anyway.”
She didn’t argue that. Just gave a slow nod and made sure he ate his dinner before letting him leave.
He walked back to his apartment with the cold wind biting at his coat and Katniss Everdeen still circling his thoughts.
The Everdeens had always been the town’s healers, even with a Capitol-trained clinic just ten minutes down Main. For all the sterile efficiency of modern medicine, when someone was truly desperate, when the baby wouldn’t breathe or the old man wouldn’t wake, they went to the Everdeens.
And when all hope was gone, even the doctors would whisper: Try Katniss.
They called her a witch—one from a long line of Everdeens. Peeta had never seen her practicing magic—never saw her whisper spells or draw symbols in the dirt. The only things he had seen were squirrels and pheasants shot clean through the eye, and once or twice, a bottle or two handed discreetly to Madge when she was pregnant. He knew she sometimes left medicine on doorsteps when someone in the Seam fell ill, always before sunrise and without a word.
Katniss had left the house in the Seam the day Prim turned eighteen.
Prim became a herbalist, setting up her apothecary on the edge where the Seam gave way to the first proper buildings of town—just beyond the laundry lines, where the dirt paths hardened into cobblestone and the rooflines straightened. The old Everdeen house sat squarely in between: not quite Seam, not quite town. She married one of the Hawthorne boys. They had no children yet.
The memory from ten years ago still haunted him.
He had followed her too. Just like everyone else—half the district. Even his mother, hard as iron and twice as proud, hadn’t questioned it. They walked behind Katniss through the trees for half a day until they reached a quiet field by a still lake, surrounded by ash trees.
That night, when the sun went down, the bombs fell. District 12 was flattened. The Seam and a strip of the meadow were all that remained. Everything else—homes, shops, streets—was gone.
They stayed in the woods for five days.
Katniss and the Hawthornes hunted meat. Prim and their mother taught the others how to forage for mushrooms, edible bark, and woodland greens. It turned out there was more food in the forest than he’d ever imagined. Katniss, quiet but oddly patient, taught him how to fish and clean his catch. She even showed him how to roast it over the fire.
She’d smiled once—just once—and said, “You’re good at starting fires.”
He’d blushed and admitted he’d been tending bakery ovens since he was a boy.
While the rest of District 12 was focused on survival—gathering food, securing shelter—he found himself running after Katniss Everdeen, trying to be useful, like some lovesick idiot.
It took nearly a month before anyone came for them.
They said they were from District 13. The survivors were brought to their underground city, where they stayed for half a year while the rest of the country burned in rebellion. President Coin had tried to recruit Katniss after hearing how she’d single-handedly saved thousands of people. But not long after, Katniss disappeared.
Even Prim and Mrs. Everdeen didn’t know where she had gone. Still, he was sure she was safe—Prim and her mother had seemed calm, focused, fully immersed in their healer training.
When the Capitol fell and President Snow was killed by Finnick Odair, most of the survivors from District 12 returned home to rebuild. It had taken ten years to get here.
The town was back on its feet. The mines reopened. A medicine factory was built beyond the railway line. Most of the population now worked there, trying to make a life out of what little was left.
But Katniss all but disappeared into the woods.
President Coin had ordered people to find her, but every search came up empty. A media producer from the Capitol arrived soon after—he claimed he wanted to document what he called The Ash-Walkers: The Flight of District 12. They interviewed everyone, wanting toknow how they know to go to the woods, what they did to survive those long month and of course they wanted to speak with the Hero of District 12, the one they dubbed The Girl on Fire. His team combed the forest for a month, hoping to capture some remnant of Katniss’s story. But they found nothing.
They had to console themselves by filming Gale Hawthorne instead, who was brought in from a military post in District Two. Rye had been thrilled to be interviewed. He told them everything—how they had survived in the wild before being picked up by District 13. But Peeta stayed away. It was the only time his mother ever seemed proud of him. If she already thought Seam people were beneath her, she held Capitol outsiders in even deeper contempt.
And later, during the symbolic Hunger Games—those twisted reaping ceremonies involving only children from the Capitol—Katniss came to watch. She stood in the square like everyone else. People were grateful to her, of course, but no one dared approach. The entire district had, in some unspoken pact, agreed to leave her alone. To respect her quiet nature. Her distance.
Still, she looked... otherworldly.
She was standing by herself, holding a strange, small cloth doll in her hand. Her lips were moving, as if she were speaking, but no sound came out. Then, just as the reaping began, something happened.
President Coin began to choke.
She clutched at her throat, gasping for air. Within moments, she collapsed. By the time medics reached her, she was already dead. The broadcast, in the chaos, had not even been cut. Millions saw her final moments.
When her body was removed from the square, he scanned the crowd again—looking for Katniss.
But she was gone again.
All that remained was the cloth doll, lying at the edge of the stage. Its neck was wrapped with what looked like strands of hair.
He didn’t think to pick it up. No one did. Moments later, the newly appointed Peacekeepers asked everyone to return home.
After that day, sightings of Katniss Everdeen became rare. She only ever went to the bakery—always to deliver something to Madge, or to trade her games. Sometimes she stopped by the butcher. But she never lingered.
And every time he saw her, it was never face to face. It was always her back. That dark braid swinging behind her like a curtain he’d never part.
Delly’s paranoia would be as good an excuse as any to visit the Everdeens.
Maybe they’d tell him how to reach Katniss. Maybe not. But if anyone knew where she went when she vanished, it was her family.
Delly’s fear could open a door.
He just had to knock.
Peeta stood on the small balcony outside his room, brush in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. The moon tonight was enormous—uncannily close, as if it had crept a few inches toward the land while no one was watching. A strange orange ring encircled it, crisp and luminous, like a warning. No stars shone within that ring; they scattered themselves along the edges, as if afraid to trespass.
He had never seen a moon like this before.
It deserved to be captured—if not for others, then for himself. So he painted, mixing delicate grays into white, smudging shadows onto the cratered surface, letting the eerie orange of the halo bloom behind it.
He was so absorbed that he nearly missed the shape moving below. But there it was—broad shoulders, solid gait, that self-assured swagger that bordered on arrogance. There were very few men in District Twelve who stood more than six feet tall and had the bulk to match. Even among the newcomers from other districts, no one quite measured up to the Mellark build.
Peeta leaned over the balcony railing. “Psst! Rye! Where are you going?”
His brother nearly tripped, muttering something as he glanced up. “Fuck you, Peeta. Stay out of my business.”
Peeta laughed, stepping back inside to cap his paints and stash the canvas. He grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door and jogged downstairs. Rye hadn’t gotten far—just past the old corner where the apothecary wall met the alley.
He caught up easily. “Where are you going? Didn’t Delly tell you to lie low for a while?”
Rye scowled, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “I’ve been cooped up in that bakery for a week. A man has to see his friends eventually.”
Peeta rolled his eyes. “So you just wanted to drink.”
“Yes, I wanted to drink,” Rye snapped. “So either you get drunk with me or you go home, baby brother.”
Peeta winced. “Don’t call me that.”
Rye slung an arm across Peeta’s shoulders, ignoring the protest. He was broader, taller—stockier than Peeta had ever been—but Peeta knew he was faster, stronger when he needed to be. If he wanted to put Rye on the ground, he could. But he didn’t. Not tonight.
“No matter if you’re fifty,” Rye said, grinning. “You’ll always be my baby brother.”
He ruffled Peeta’s hair for good measure. Peeta elbowed him in the side, annoyed but it only earned him a laugh.
“Come on,” Rye said. “First round’s on me.”
Rye Mellark was a fucking idiot.
He’d known that for a long time. He was the kind of idiot who thought he could grab a hot tray straight from the oven without mittens, just because he’d done it once before and got away with it. He was the kind of idiot who realized he was in love with Delly Cartwright—and decided the best solution was to date a different girl every week until the feeling went away.
It hadn’t.
He was the idiot who took the blame when Peeta—his little brother—shattered their mother’s prized tea set, the one passed down from her own mother. Peeta had only been five, barely tall enough to reach the basin, eager to help wash the dishes and too clumsy to manage it. Rye had been seven, old enough to lie, old enough to step between his brother and their mother’s fury. He said it was him. Took the yelling, the belt, the bruised ribs and the busted lip. He couldn't laugh for a week without wincing. But Peeta didn’t cry that night. And that, Rye had told himself, was enough.
He was the idiot who stayed friends with Asher—a walking disaster, especially when drunk. And tonight, Asher had lived up to his name. Panem help him, the man was practically made of ash. It had taken one fight, one tipped oil lamp, and everything had gone up in flames.
Peeta knew he was an idiot the second he threw himself over Peeta just as the burning beam gave way and came crashing down.
The blow drove him into the floorboards hard. Pain exploded across his back and head, and something hot trickled past his ear. Smoke was already curling around them, thick and bitter with alcohol fumes and ash.
“Rye!” Peeta’s voice was hoarse. He was half-trapped under Rye’s weight, pinned awkwardly beneath the broken beam. “Rye, come on—can you hear me?”
Rye blinked, sluggishly, the world smeared in orange and black. “Leave me,” he meant to say, but it came out as a wet croak.
“Shut up,” Peeta hissed, Peeta grunted as he twisted, shoving at the burning plank with his shoulder until it scraped loose enough to wriggle free. “You’re not dying!”
His legs were shaking, but he barely hesitated. He grabbed Rye by the shoulders, half-hauling, half-dragging him across the broken floor. Glass crunched underfoot. Flames licked the shelves behind the counter. The ceiling groaned.
“Don’t you do this,” Peeta muttered. “You don’t get to pull that kind of stunt and then leave me behind.”
Rye didn’t answer. His eyes were slitted open, unfocused, blood pooling dark at his temple.
Peeta dragged him through the smashed doorway and down the bar’s stone steps, every breath a burn. Someone shouted his name through the smoke—distant, frantic. He didn’t think about the blood or the heat blistering the backs of his hands. Didn’t think about the fact that his lungs burned or that he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him. He just dug his heels into the ground and pulled.
“Come on, Rye,” he gasped, coughing as soot filled his mouth. “You have to move. Just—come on—”
The heat was unbearable. The smoke curled down his throat like wire, tightening, and he couldn’t get a full breath. Still, he braced again, trying to get his arms under Rye’s and drag him out. He could feel Rye slipping—too limp, too still—and he screamed, raw and furious.
“You stupid, stupid idiot—you never listen!”
A flicker of movement.
Peeta’s heart lurched as he turned toward it—and saw Thom, his roommate, barreling through the wreckage with two other miners. Their faces were soot-streaked, eyes wide with horror.
“Help!” Peeta cried, his voice hoarse. “Help me!”
And then the black smoke closed in like a curtain, and everything went dark.
Peeta sat in the corner of the hospital room, his back pressed to the cool metal of a chair too narrow for comfort, staring blankly at the wall just beyond his brother’s bed. He didn't blink much anymore. Didn't speak, either. Not since the doctor came in with words that felt like a guillotine.
Delly was sobbing beside him, clutching a handkerchief soaked through long ago. The doctor's voice was maddeningly calm, rehearsed from too many repetitions.
"The swelling has pushed the brain downward. There’s significant compression in the lower centers. Even if we operated now, there’s... there’s no recovery possible. No meaningful consciousness."
Graham leaned forward, hands clenched, voice cracking. “What does that even mean? Can you say it again? Simpler?”
The doctor nodded solemnly. “His brain isn’t sending signals anymore. The parts that let you breathe, wake up, speak, eat... they’ve been damaged. Even if his heart keeps beating, Rye’s not coming back. He’s not there anymore.”
Peeta’s hands twitched in his lap. His palms were bandaged thick, wrapped in gauze that clung to the pink-red skin underneath. They pulsed, raw and hot—like holding oven trays fresh from the flame. He couldn’t feel much else anymore, but that pain was constant, like punishment. He stared at them. He remembered dragging Rye from the burning wreckage. He remembered the heat, the smoke in his throat, the weight of his brother’s body.
And now Rye lay there, unmoving. His face—almost peaceful—was a liar. The truth was in the wires: one feeding him, another dripping medication, a third forcing air into his lungs with a slow, inhuman rhythm. There were more tubes than limbs. It had been a week, and still he didn’t stir.
They were telling them to let him go.
He knew what that meant. The bed. The machines. The nurse had looked at them like they were hoarding some precious resource. That was the word, wasn’t it? Brain dead. Not dying. Just... gone.
He stood and reached, trembling, toward Rye. The bandages crinkled softly, his fingers shaking just inches from his brother’s chest. But before he could touch, his mother’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
“You useless boy!” she shrieked, storming toward him. “You couldn’t even save your own brother!”
Peeta flinched, breath caught halfway down his throat.
“He dragged him out!” Graham snapped, standing between them. “You wouldn’t even have a body to bury if it weren’t for Peeta!”
Their mother reeled back, stunned. Her lips trembled before she cursed them all—something vile—and stormed from the room.
Delly cried harder, her whole frame trembling as she buried her face in her hands. Peeta looked at her—his oldest friend, now sister-in-law. Her eyes were red and swollen, lashes matted. She had a six-year-old and a two-year-old at home. They didn’t deserve this. They didn’t deserve to lose him.
Peeta’s voice cracked out of him like something rusted. “We should go to the Everdeens.”
Everyone stilled.
Delly’s head snapped up. Her eyes widened, mouth parted in disbelief. Graham stared too, as if Peeta had spoken in a language none of them knew.
But Peeta just looked down at his ruined hands. He couldn’t explain it yet. He just knew.
Katniss would know what to do.
“They already said they couldn’t do anything,” Graham had whispered, like he was afraid to speak too loud would make it more real.
Peeta just nodded once. Then, hoarse and quiet, he said, “We should go to the Everdeens.”
He didn’t know if it was desperation or madness, but his father was moving even before the words fully left his mouth. Within minutes, they’d borrowed a neighbor’s old pushcart—the kind used for firewood and coal. And with aching hands and hollow eyes, they loaded Rye’s body in, as if some spark might return if they just got him to the right place.
His brother pulled the front, teeth gritted, arms straining. Their father pushed from behind with all the strength left in him. Rye’s limbs shifted with the motion, bandages stained, tubes packed alongside him like they might still be necessary.
Delly stumbled after them. She wasn’t crying anymore—maybe her body had run out of water—but her hair clung to her face and her skirt was crooked and torn, one shoe missing. She was meant to be supporting Peeta, but truly, it was the other way around. Even with his hands still wrapped in raw agony, he let her lean, bore her weight like he was used to pain. Because he was. Because it didn’t matter. Not compared to this.
People peeked from behind windows as they passed—curtains twitching, doors cracking open just long enough to stare. In District 12, grief this large had a sound, and it was the creaking of old wheels over uneven stone. It was the soft moan of a woman too tired to sob.
They reached the Everdeen house just as the sun reached it's zenith, casting the narrow path in dusky gray. Peeta stepped forward, eyes already pleading, but Mrs. Everdeen met them on the threshold with a nurse’s expression—professional, pained, closed off.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “There’s nothing we can do for brain damage like that. You know that.”
Peeta’s throat tightened. “Please, ma’am. Just—just tell us how to find Katniss. She’s our only hope.”
For a moment, her eyes flicked over them. Their father, heaving at the cart, his face gray. Graham, leaning on his knees. Delly, barefoot and swaying. Peeta, bandaged and still bleeding through the cloth. All of them clinging to something wild and impossible.
Her gaze softened, and that almost hurt more.
But she still shook her head. “She’s not—”
A low, guttural growl broke through the stillness.
They all turned as a massive black dog stepped onto the road. Its head was low, gait steady and deliberate. Its eyes were yellow-gold. Not like fire, but like the coals left behind once fire had done its worst.
“Cal?” a girl’s voice called from the porch behind Mrs. Everdeen. “Is that you, Cal?”
Prim stepped out in her apron, eyes wide with recognition. But when she truly saw the dog—tattered ear, sleek muscle, half a ghost—her face changed. She turned, locked the door of the house behind her, then said firmly, “You need to follow him.”
The dog didn’t wait. It turned and padded down the road, tail high, as if it knew the way well.
No one questioned it. No one dared. Because somehow, impossibly, it felt like hope had taken the shape of a beast.
They followed Cal past the last houses, past the broken tracks and rusted fences. There was a gate now where the fence met the woods—a joke, really. Nobody ever used it. Nobody wanted to.
The woods were memories, and not kind ones. A month hiding after the bombings, cold and starving, the branches above them like ribs in a half-dead animal. But the woods had sheltered and saved them once. And for that, they left it alone as a sign of respect.
The wheels struggled on the path, jostling Rye’s body. His arm slipped once, and Delly cried out. Peeta adjusted it gently, ignoring the fresh throb of his palms.
The earth grew soft in places, and roots clawed from the soil like fingers. Twice, the cart stuck. Once, it nearly tipped. His father cursed under his breath, and Graham doubled back to lift a wheel free. Still, they did not stop.
And they had not walked even an hour when they saw it.
Three tall trees stood ahead, their trunks wide as a house and leaning into one another, as if in an ancient embrace. Nestled where they met was something strange—something he might not have noticed at all, if the wind hadn’t shifted just so.
At first glance, it looked like a hill, green and rolling, with tufts of grass swaying gently in the spring air. But the hill had a door. A thick, wooden door fitted neatly into the slope, dark iron hinges curling like vines. Two wide windows flanked it, shutters thrown open, letting the light pour into the dim interior. Smoke curled lazily from the center of the mound, rising into the canopy where birds flitted and chirped, undisturbed.
“It’s a house,” Delly breathed, her eyes round with wonder. “But… if you weren’t looking—if the windows weren’t open—you’d never know.”
Peeta nodded slowly, his breath catching. The hill narrowed near the top, as the trees leaned close enough that their branches tangled, forming a kind of archway above it. He could see inside one window—bundles of herbs, tied and drying, dangling from the rafters. The scent drifted toward them on the breeze: lavender, mint, and something more bitter.
Then Prim bolted forward. “Katniss!” she cried, dashing up the stone path to the door. “Katniss, come out!”
The black dog—Cal, if that was really his name—was gone, vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared.
The wooden door creaked open, and Katniss Everdeen stepped into the light.
She wore dark trousers and a simple tunic, her hair in a single thick braid over one shoulder. She squinted at the group approaching her house—at the cart, the body, the broken people—her face unreadable.
Mrs. Everdeen stepped forward. “Katniss,” she said softly, “they came for help.”
Katniss’s brows pulled together. She shook her head slowly.
Peeta’s chest caved. She was going to turn them away.
Mrs Everdeen whispered furiously at her that Katniss did not really have a choice but to step aside and gesture them in.
They lifted Rye carefully, Graham taking one shoulder, their father the other. Inside, the house was surprisingly spacious—one open chamber with high beams and the smell of smoke and sage. The stone fireplace glowed with coals even though it was barely past midday. In front of it, a pallet had been laid with soft linen, as if it had always been waiting.
Delly dropped to her knees beside Rye as they settled him down, her hands trembling as she brushed hair from his face. Her lips moved but no words came out, only a soft gasp.
Peeta took in the room. A sofa sat under one window, worn but clean. The other window held a sturdy armchair and table, a book half-opened on it. He could see the kitchen—airy and practical, with a thick oven of dark stone and a wide counter. A small dining table stood tucked near the staircase, which curled up into the ceiling, probably to her bedroom above.
“Please,” their father said, stepping forward. His voice cracked. “If there’s anything—anything at all you can do—please.”
Katniss stood near the hearth, her hands limp at her sides. “No one can bring the dead back,” she said.
“He’s not dead,” Peeta said hoarsely. He stepped forward, past Delly. “He’s still breathing. He just… needs a push. He just needs help waking up.”
Katniss looked at him then, really looked at him. Her eyes flicked to the red-stained bandages on his hands, the raw exhaustion on his face. There was pity there—but no hope. She shook her head again.
A knock at the kitchen door made them all flinch.
Even Katniss startled. No one had followed them. No one should be here.
She moved to the back door, cautious, and pulled it open.
Standing just beyond the threshold was a deer.
But not just any deer.
It towered above her. Its antlers rose so high they scraped the arch of the doorframe—wide, sprawling things like twisted trees themselves, each tine sharp and perfect. Its fur, once white, was dusted gray with dirt and age, giving it an otherworldly sheen, like moonlight made flesh. Its eyes were dark and solemn, and it did not flinch, did not move.
It simply looked into the room.
And everything fell quiet.
“What…” Katniss whispered, her voice barely carried past the doorframe.
The deer did not move, then slowly, with a grace too deliberate to be animal, it lowered its massive head. From its mouth, it laid down a bundle of leaves—broad, veined things glinting with dew though no rain had fallen. They looked freshly plucked from another world.
Katniss stared, then knelt and picked them up carefully, turning them over in her hands. Her mouth tightened. “All of you,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder at the bewildered group. “You’re all ridiculous.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. “Prim,” she said over her shoulder as she moved toward the small kitchen hearth, “build a fire and put water to boil. Wash these carefully—don’t tear them.”
Prim darted toward the stove, her face flushed with something like excitement, like fear, and bent to gather kindling. The fire crackled to life beneath the blackened pot hook, and soon the old kettle was hanging above the flames, waiting to boil.
Katniss turned back to the rest of them, her expression unreadable. “It will cost you.”
“We have money,” Mr. Mellark said quickly, stepping forward, hopeful.
But Katniss only shook her head. “Not money.”
Silence fell, heavy and uncertain. The only sound was the fire crackling behind them and the faint drip of water off someone's cloak.
Her eyes swept over them, lingering on Peeta. “A son for a son. One of you has to stay here.”
Delly sucked in a sharp breath. “Stay?” she whispered, barely able to speak.
“A trade,” Katniss said, voice flat and final. “To wake him, something must be given. One of you stays.”
It was as if the room had stopped breathing.
Peeta stepped forward without hesitation. “I’ll stay.”
“No,” Graham said at once, moving to his side. “Absolutely not.”
Peeta turned toward him, jaw set. “You have three kids who need you. No one really needs me.”
“That’s not true,” Graham said fiercely, but Peeta cut him off.
“It’s just obvious, Graham!” His voice rose, trembling with frustration and grief. “I should be the one. I was supposed to be the one here. If Rye hadn’t been so stupid—if he hadn’t shielded me—he wouldn’t be lying there like that. I should be the one in that bed. Not him.” His voice cracked, bitter and broken. “So it doesn’t matter.”
They all stared at him, stricken. Delly reached for his hand and held it tightly, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, while Graham stood motionless, eyes closed, jaw clenched against emotion.
Katniss’s voice broke through the stillness. “Come here.”
Peeta stepped forward.
“Panem—” Peeta rushed forward. “Let me see—”
But she waved him off, stepping back. “Do it too using your good hand.”
He didn’t pause. Reaching up, he grasped the opposite antler, dug in his fingers, and pulled.
Blood welled up in his palm, hot and thick, mingling with the sweat already clinging to his skin.
The deer blinked slowly, its gaze ancient and unreadable. Then it turned away from the door, hooves nearly silent, and disappeared into the trees.
Katniss didn’t look after it. She turned to Prim. “Bring the basin.”
Prim, pale but steady, opened a cabinet beneath the counter and drew out a low, wide bowl carved from a smooth gray stone shot through with veins of green and faint blue, like moss frozen in ice. The surface shimmered faintly in the firelight, and something about it made the hair on Peeta’s neck rise.
Katniss set the basin on the floor between them and knelt.
“Your hand,” she said.
Peeta knelt across from her, extending the hand slick with blood. She took it without hesitation, pressing her palm—also bleeding—firmly against his. Their fingers curled around one another.
Peeta stared down at their joined hands.
He was holding Katniss Everdeen’s hand.
If only his seven-year-old self could see this. He would probably faint.
Then she squeezed.
A sharp pain shot through his hand as fresh blood welled from both of them, their wounds reopened by pressure. The blood began to drip into the stone basin below—thick, dark red against the gray stone.
Peeta winced, not from the pain, but from the strange pull in his chest, the sense that something old and forgotten had just been invoked.
Katniss kept her eyes on the basin. Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely louder than the crackling fire.
Blood of earth, blood of sky,
Woven threads that never die.
Roots that twist, winds that sing,
Life’s blood flows in everything.
Peeta’s chest felt as though it was being crushed under the weight of the world. It was like the suffocating pressure miners must’ve felt when trapped in a collapsed mine, the life being pushed out of him with every breath he tried to take. His skin was cold with sweat, his heart hammering in his chest, and for a brief moment, it felt like his body might give up entirely. But then, just as quickly, the crushing pressure released. The air rushed back into his lungs, and his breath came in ragged gasps, as if he'd been drowning and suddenly found air. He didn’t even realize how close he was to toppling until Graham was beside him, steadying him, helping him remain upright. Peeta didn’t have the strength to fight him.
Katniss, still bleeding from the wound she’d taken, moved with the quiet determination of someone who knew what needed to be done. She settled herself beside Rye, her hands gentle as she ran her fingers through his disheveled hair. She turned to Prim, who stood silently, eyes wide, her expression conflicted. “Prim,” Katniss said, her voice firm despite the faint tremble, “the leaves. Where are they?”
Graham, ever the silent support, helped place the leaves next to Katniss, positioning them carefully. Katniss didn’t waste a moment. She picked up the leaves, her blood still dripping as she pressed them to Rye’s head where the deep gash lay. The leaves clung to the wound, like cloth, and Delly gasped sharply at the sight of the fresh blood seeping through.
Peeta watched as Katniss worked, his gaze fixed on her hands, unable to look away. The sight of her so composed, so focused, almost detached, unsettled him. She moved with practiced precision, pressing the leaves firmly against Rye's wound, brow furrowed in concentration.
He saw the blood soak into the plant material, turning the once green leaves dark and heavy with the crimson stains. It wasn’t long before she discarded the leaves and reached for a fresh set. The silence in the room was suffocating, thick with tension as Katniss continued her task, unflinching.
Every time she switched the leaves, Peeta couldn’t help but feel the weight of what she was doing. It was like watching her stitch the fabric of life and death, each delicate motion a promise to save him. But she was far from gentle—no, there was no time for softness here. The urgency in her movements spoke volumes, her focus unwavering as she layered more leaves, pressing them into the wound, watching them fade as blood soaked through them.
Peeta’s chest tightened as he glanced from her steady hands to Rye’s pale, still form. Katniss never looked up. It was as if the world around them had ceased to exist, reduced to nothing but this moment, the space between life and death. He saw her dip her finger into the basin, pulling a thin, glowing thread from their joined blood. It shimmered in the dim light, a delicate, ethereal strand that pulsed with some strange energy.
The way she wove it over Rye’s wound, so carefully, so tenderly—it almost looked like she was stitching a part of him back together, pulling him from the brink of death. He wasn’t sure if he was amazed or terrified. Was this what she had been trained for? What did it take to be this calm in the face of injury, of death?
She changed the leaves once more, this time pressing harder, as though each movement was crucial, the weight of her focus heavier than any words could convey. Peeta’s heart hammered in his chest, unsure if it was for Rye or because he feared for the girl who was doing everything she could to keep them his brother alive.
Katniss turned to Delly, "Call him back."
“Rye?” Delly’s voice wobbled, but she leaned in closer, brushing a bit of soot from his cheek. “Can you hear me? It’s me. It’s Delly. You know me. You have to know me.”
Her fingers trembled as they hovered just over his shoulder, not quite touching. “Do you remember when we used to sneak honey rolls from the cooling rack? Your dad always pretended he didn’t notice, but he totally did. You had sugar all over your face and still swore it wasn’t you.”
A shaky laugh caught in her throat. “You said they tasted better when they were stolen. And I believed you, because you were Rye Mellark and you could make anything sound true. Even when you told me you once punched a bear to protect Peeta. You were eight and it was a dog. But I believed it.”
Katniss didn’t look up, but the corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“You remember that day I tripped and skinned my knees in the square? I cried like a baby, and you... you brought me a ginger cookie. It was burnt. Like, charcoal burnt. But I ate it anyway, because you smiled at me when you gave it to me. You were missing a tooth, and I thought you looked like a pirate.”
Delly’s voice cracked, but she pressed on, brushing his damp hair back. “You always called me ‘Red’ even though my hair isn’t really red. You said it was because I blushed too much. You made me blush on purpose, Rye. You’re probably doing it now.”
She laughed again, a breathy, tear-wet sound.
“I swear, if you don’t open your eyes right now, I’m going to sing that terrible song you made up about squirrel stew. The one that rhymed ‘chewy’ with ‘gooey’—I will do it, Rye.”
Still no movement. She sniffled.
“Please... please don’t make me say goodbye. You never liked goodbyes. Remember? You used to fake a limp so you could skip school and stay at the bakery with your brothers. You hated endings.”
Her hand finally settled against his shoulder, light as a feather.
“So don’t let this be one. Okay? Just... come back. Please. Come back to me.”
The hours passed like this. The room grew heavy with the weight of their shared breath, the tension lingering as they waited. Finally, Rye’s body let out a moan—barely audible at first, but it was enough. Katniss's breath caught, but she didn’t let herself stop. She continued the motions, the thread of their blood binding his wound tighter with each pass.
Rye’s eyes fluttered open—slow, sluggish. He blinked, the exhaustion in his gaze clear, but then they closed again. Delly gasped, holding her breath, and before she could say anything, Rye mumbled faintly, “I’m... hungry.”
The sound of his voice, soft and broken, sent a wave of relief through them all. Delly let out a sob of joy, laughing and crying all at once. Graham and Peeta both joined in, their voices choked with emotion. The pain, the fear, the worry—all of it poured out in the form of tears. Peeta could barely control himself as the wave of raw emotion hit him. Rye had spoken, had returned to them.
Katniss, her fingers still stained with the remnants of their blood, finished the task she had set out to complete. She carefully gathered the used leaves, now soaked with blood, and dipped them into the small stone basin. She spoke softly as she did so, her movements deliberate. “Peeta,” she said quietly, “take this outside. The basin... it needs to go.”
Peeta nodded, his chest still tight with the aftereffects of his earlier struggle. He carried the basin outside through the kitchen door. The porch opened up before them, not much more than a platform of worn planks softened by weather and time. There wasn’t a proper fence, just low benches on three sides—one at the front, and one to each side—hewn from logs and set in place like borders. The benches were crooked in some places, bleached by sun and spotted with moss, but they held firm, acting more like quiet sentries than seating.
Three steps led down into the yard, carved from old river stone—slick in some seasons, smooth as bone. The stones had likely been shaped by water long before they’d ever been set here, maybe gathered from a stream that had long since dried up. The middle step dipped slightly in the center where countless boots had worn it down.
The air was thick with silence, the shadows of branches reaching overhead like a protective canopy, casting a cool, tranquil shade over the ground. The path lead to a body of water not far from the house, it wasn’t quite a river, not quite a stream—too narrow to be a river, too deep to be a mere stream. The sound of water rushing over rocks filled the air, but Peeta’s gaze caught on something beyond the water. He stopped in his tracks.
There, on a boulder protruding just above the waterline, was a small waterfall. The water cascaded down in a thin, almost delicate sheet. But what truly left him speechless was the flame that flickered behind it—bright, bold, and defiant against the water. How could fire burn through water? The flame flickered, undeterred, as if it were a creature of its own, surviving where it should not.
His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “How... How is that possible?”
Katniss, steady and calm, approached him. She reached her hand out toward the flame, her fingers brushing the water’s surface. “Watch,” she said simply, her voice low.
Peeta’s breath hitched in his throat. “Katniss, stop—don’t—” he tried to protest, but she didn’t flinch. She continued, moving closer. She placed her palm on the flame, the heat intense, but not for her. She did not recoil. In that moment, Peeta watched in awe and confusion as the gash in her palm—the very wound that had been bleeding just hours ago—closed, as if it had never existed. Her skin healed right before his eyes, leaving no trace of the cut.
He stepped forward, horrified, reaching for her hand. “How is this possible...”
Katniss stood by the flame, its glow dancing in her eyes, the water cascading around her arm like a veil of light. Without a word, she turned to Peeta and reached for his arm—the one that had been bandaged tight from the burn, the skin beneath still raw and pained from the accident days ago. He stiffened at her touch, but did not pull away.
With slow, deliberate fingers, she unwrapped the bandage. The cloth peeled away, revealing blistered, cracked skin. Angry red welts lined the length of his forearm. His breath caught at the sight of it. It had never looked so bad. But Katniss’s gaze didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. She simply met his eyes and said, “Trust me.”
And then, just as she had done with her own hand, she guided his arm forward—toward the flame flickering behind the thin sheet of water. His instinct was to resist. His body screamed that fire meant pain, that fire always meant more pain.
But Katniss held firm, and as his skin met the fire, there was no agony—only a strange warmth, like the sun after winter. His bleeding hand passed through the flames first, and then the length of his arm, and he gasped—not from pain, but from awe.
The burned flesh... it changed. Before his very eyes, the blistered skin began to smooth, the angry reds and purples fading, replaced by a soft, newborn pink. His jaw fell slack. The pain, once sharp and unrelenting, dulled into nothing, and when he pulled his arm back, he turned it over slowly—palm, wrist, forearm. There was no trace of the burn. No mark. Nothing.
He looked to Katniss, wide-eyed. “It’s... gone.”
She nodded once. “It gives back what’s lost. But you have to give something in return.”
She stepped aside, motioning to the basin still in his hands—the one filled with blood-soaked leaves from Rye’s healing. “Pour it here,” she said softly.
He moved closer, holding the basin to the small pool beneath the waterfall and flame. As soon as the blood and leaves touched the surface, a sharp hiss broke the stillness. The liquid sizzled, steam rising in great, curling tendrils. The moment he poured the content, he stumbled back from the sudden heat and hiss of vapor.
Mist began to rise—not just from the water, but around them. Thick, white, and sudden. It coiled around their feet and ankles, swirling up their legs and shoulders until Peeta could barely see the house through the curtain of fog. He blinked hard, turning back toward Katniss.
But even in the thick of it, she stood calm—a figure etched in silver and flame.
Katniss stood just by the flame, her palm still faintly glowing where it had touched fire without injury. She turned her head toward Peeta and said, “Wash your arm in the water. All of it.”
Peeta didn’t question her. Not now. He crouched beside the narrow stream, where the water pooled around the mossy stones, just beneath the thin waterfall. As he dipped his newly healed arm beneath it, a ripple of sensation passed up his skin—cool, tingling, not painful but restorative, as if something deep beneath the surface was still knitting itself together. He let the water run over from shoulder to fingertip. It felt clean. Pure. Like being born again.
Katniss was already walking back toward the house, and Peeta followed her, slowly flexing his fingers, twisting his wrist in wonder. His skin looked untouched, unblemished, as if it had never known flame.
Inside, the world felt entirely different. The scent of herbs and stew met him at the door, and he paused just behind Katniss. Delly was murmuring to Rye in a soft, lilting voice, spooning warm broth gently between his cracked lips. Rye managed a weak, crooked smile, then muttered something that made Delly laugh—a joke, surely. Her laughter had the texture of relief.
Mrs. Everdeen was by the stove, ladling stew into bowls, the rich scent of carrots and root vegetables thick in the air. Prim had just returned from the cupboard with a small basket of bread. It was from the bakery. Peeta could tell instantly by the crust—but it was stale. Understandable. They hadn’t opened since the fire.
As Peeta stepped fully into the space, he took in the surroundings with new eyes. The walls were rough stone, smoothed only where hands had passed too often to leave them wild. Dark wood beams framed the ceiling. He blinked in surprise when he noticed the sink—its basin carved from stone, and water flowed through it continuously from a smaller version of the waterfall outside, trickling down and then draining back out.
He leaned closer to the kitchen window, where the ledge outside bloomed with sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and flat-leaf parsley, all catching dew and light. It made him smile faintly.
The large oven in the corner was shaped from red clay, rounded like a honeycomb. Peeta placed his hand against its side without thinking. It was warm, even though the fire inside had long since gone out. Beside it was a narrow door, likely the pantry, and he made a note to check what supplies might be stored there.
The wide counter in the middle of the kitchen was not crafted—it was grown. A thick tangle of roots had emerged from the earth and had been filed down until smooth and shining, rising up naturally to form a perfect divide between the kitchen and the dining area.
The table was small and wooden, with four mismatched chairs tucked neatly beneath it. One side, instead of chairs, had a low bench made of polished roots like the counter. It sat lower to the ground, its surface warm and textured. Behind the table was another window, narrow but bright, and just beside it was a door that led out into a shaded area where he can see a wooden table and two stone chairs.
Cal was sleeping under the shade.
The carved cabinets along the wall were made of stone, their doors etched with curling vinework. Inside were neatly stacked plates, bowls, and a few thick-bottomed glasses. Near the hearth, a narrow set of stairs led upward, disappearing into the ceiling beam. The house didn’t feel built—it felt shaped, as if the earth itself had lifted its hands and made a shelter for Katniss.
Delly rose suddenly and wrapped her arms around Katniss, tears still shining at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Katniss looked stiff, caught off-guard, but she reached a hand up and patted Delly’s shoulder in return. “He’ll be all right,” she said gruffly. “Keep feeding him.”
Mrs. Everdeen began passing out bowls of stew, one for each of them. Peeta took his with gratitude, even if the bread crumbled at the edges. Hunger made it all taste rich. They ate quietly, knees bumping beneath the little table, steam curling from the bowls.
When the meal was done, Peeta offered to wash the dishes. “Let me,” he said, rising. “I’m good with washing dishes.”
Mrs. Everdeen arched a brow but nodded, stepping back as Peeta found the smooth stone plug resting beside the basin. He wedged it in place, and a thin waterfall—clear as glass—tumbled gently from a carved spout high in the stone wall, spilling directly into the sink. The water flowed steadily, gliding over polished stone and slipping out again through a narrow slit beneath the windowsill, where sprigs of mint and feverfew clustered, drinking in the overflow.
He couldn’t help but grin—and then yelped, jerking his hand back as the water gushed out, uncharacteristically hot. “Panem,” he muttered, shaking his fingers in the air. “Warn me next time your magical sink decides to boil me alive.”
Prim grinned at him, “It’s always like that at first,” she said flatly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Peeta shot a look at the small waterfall spout, watching the steam curl up from the basin as it filled. After a few seconds of hovering, he dipped his fingers in again—tentatively this time—until he could bear it. It took a few minutes for his skin to adjust to the heat, and even then, it was like submerging his hands in tea. Still, once the sting faded, the warmth seemed to sink deep into his bones, and he sighed.
“Okay,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Hot waterfall sink. Got it. Just add it to the list of impossible things.”
Graham chuckled beside him, towel already in hand, as the two settled into their rhythm—one washing, one drying, in the quiet warmth of the stone house that felt less like shelter and more like something alive.
“This place is unbelievable,” he whispered.
Peeta grinned and shrugged. “I know. I still can’t believe no one ever found it before. It’s not even that far from the fence.”
Graham nodded, glancing toward the open window where sunlight filtered through green leaves. “Really think you’re okay staying here?”
“Yeah,” Peeta said, quietly certain. “I want you to bring my things. Clothes, paint, brushes... the whole box.”
Graham hesitated. “What about your apartment?”
Peeta glanced at him, a crease between his brows. “I don’t want anyone to know exactly what happened here. You saw her. Katniss doesn’t want people coming around, asking questions. If they knew what she can do... someone might try to use her. Or just harass her every time she goes to town.”
His brother’s jaw tensed, but he nodded. “I won’t say anything. And I doubt anyone could find this place, not if Coin and that Capitol media guy never could.”
Peeta looked toward the low ceiling beams and the dappled light on the floor. “Even so... tell Rye, Delly, and Dad, to keep quiet, okay? You can tell Madge, of course, but not mom.”
“Alright,” Graham said. “You have my word.”
They had just rinsed the last basin and dried their arms when Katniss emerged from a narrow doorway just to the right of the sofa. Peeta blinked. He hadn’t even noticed it before. The door looked like it led downward—maybe a root cellar, or something deeper. She carried three dark bottles tucked beneath one arm, and a small bundle of herb-wrapped cloth in the other.
Without fuss, she handed the bottles to Delly. “One teaspoon if he has a headache. No more than three teaspoons a day.”
Delly nodded, holding the bottles like glass spun from gold.
“There might be some confusion,” Katniss added, her voice matter-of-fact. “Headaches, maybe blurred vision. It should pass. If it doesn’t, tell Prim and she will inform me.”
Then she held out the bundle—leaves with a sharp, clean mint scent, tightly tied in soft linen. “Put this in a red cloth and hang it by the window near his bed.”
Rye, now propped up a little higher on the sofa, raised a brow. “How do you know we’ve got a big window near our bed?”
Katniss only shrugged, stepping back with the faintest twitch of her mouth. “Lucky guess.” Then she look at all of them, “You have to leave.”
Mrs. Everdeen gave her daughter a look. “Katniss. That was rude.”
But Katniss just scowled faintly. “You all really need to leave. It’s almost dark.”
And she was right. The last slant of the sun was already brushing gold across the floor, shadows creeping long across the stone.
Rye grumbled the entire time their father and Graham helped him onto the cart again. This time, he was upright, perched grumpily on the edge of the worn cushion like a prince out of favor. He had insisted—loudly—that he could walk, but one sharp, no-nonsense tone from Graham made him shut his mouth and sit still. He still muttered to himself, arms crossed, brows knitted.
When Graham took hold of the cart’s handle and gave it a small tug, the wheels creaked, rolling forward over the mossy earth. Peeta stood just inside the doorway, not moving.
“Hey, Peeta!” Rye called over his shoulder, twisting to look at him. “Let’s go!”
Peeta stepped out into the dappled light, raising a hand, but didn’t follow.
“I’m staying here. Just for now,” he murmured, only loud enough for Graham to hear as he passed.
Rye frowned, confused, but the expression shifted quickly into something sly. He glanced behind him—no doubt toward Katniss still inside—and leaned closer, slinging an arm loosely around Peeta’s shoulder, pulling him in with the kind of brotherly warmth that always came with trouble.
“This is your chance, baby brother,” he whispered with a mischievous grin. “Don’t mess it up.”
Peeta rolled his eyes and shoved his hand away with a quiet laugh, slapping at Rye’s outstretched fingers next, which reached back playfully from the cart.
Delly was next. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “Are you really okay staying here?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper against his shirt.
Peeta smiled against her hair. “Are you kidding me, Delly? This is like seven-year-old Peeta’s dream.”
She pulled back and laughed, her blue eyes crinkling with affection, though a sliver of concern lingered at the edges.
His father came last, embracing him firmly, the kind of hug that squeezed the breath out of his ribs for a moment.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, low and serious, “and take care of her.”
Peeta nodded, the promise folding into his chest like it had always belonged there. “Make sure no one talks about what happened here. No one. Not even in passing.”
“We won’t,” his father said. “You have my word.”
Graham shot him one last look as they pulled farther down the path, still not quite convinced that this was a good idea. Peeta just smiled, small and reassuring, the kind of smile he hoped would ease the knot in his brother’s chest.
The black dog, as though understanding its duty, trotted ahead of them, tail high, clearing the path through the woods like a sentinel.
Peeta had a feeling it would be a long time before he saw his family again—if he ever saw them at all.