The man sits at a worn-down wooden table in the small room. The only light comes from a fireplace on the back wall. He pulls paper and a pen from his pocket and begins to write.
You are Katniss Everdeen. Mellark? Maybe. I wouldn't know.
The cabin is in the woods somewhere near what was once District Two. Only he knows of its existence, after all he was the one who built it.
I've lost track of the years. Ten? Fifteen? Something like that. You probably have kids by now.
The man was once a hero. He saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. But not the two that mattered most.
You never wanted kids. Well, Catnip didn't. But you are Katniss.
He kept himself busy, though. It wasn't hard when there was food to be found and repairs to be made. He never thought of them, yet they were always on his mind.
I was told long ago that I was the reason we were free. I cracked the Nut. Without me, the Games would still be happening.
Every second of every day the guilt hung over him like a dark cloak of grief. It would never leave.
Without me, the Games would still be happening. But without me, you'd still have a sister. And without me, maybe you'd still be Catnip.
It was him who destroyed her. When he destroyed the little girl, who was very nearly his own sister, he destroyed her. And without her, he himself was destroyed.
Or maybe not. Maybe Catnip left as soon as her precious sister was called up to the stage.
This was what he had become. The great man who brought the country to liberty, who made their lives infinitely better, had disappeared. He was an empty shell. The hero had died long ago. And so had she.
When you think about it, the war was for her. You took her place to keep her safe. You won to keep her safe. You were engaged to keep her safe. You fought the war to keep her safe. And after the war was won, she wasn't safe. She was ashes. And so were you.
The room is empty but for the table and a grimy mirror with a jagged crack down the center. The man glances up for a moment and sighs before continuing. Whenever he looks in the mirror he sees a monster. A murderer. But more than that he sees a failure. The hero who failed to save what needed saving the most.
It was my fault, of course.
What he doesn't see is what is really there. The scowl and creased brow that seemed permanent to most since he was a boy truly are permanent now. They have become more prominent too, as have lines that no man should have at such a young age.
Sometimes I allow myself to picture what your life is now. Happily married with kids. That's what I want for you. But I know it isn't that way. Maybe you're married with kids. But happy? You will never be truly happy. Not without her.
Only a few lines are left on the page. The man grips the edge of the table for a moment , recalling another table from a day long ago, a day full of pain and sadness that he wishes he could go back to, for it was one of the few moments he had hope she loved him back.
If you and I saw each other again, I don't think we would recognize each other. We would be two people who had known each other long ago, so long ago it was another life. We would be strangers now. Katniss and the man who brought peace to Panem. Catnip and Gale don't exist anymore. They are ashes.
The man pauses for a moment, then fills the last line on the page.
Catnip knew I love her sister as much as I love her. She knew I would never hurt her. But just like her sister, Catnip is ashes.
The man folds the letter into an envelope. Before sealing it, he takes a single primrose from its vase and slips it in with the letter. He stands stiffly and walks slowly from the table towards the fire, its flames just beginning to fade to embers. He brushes his thumb across the name written in rough script across the front of the envelope. Katniss. A single tear drips onto it and he drops the envelope into the coals, watching the dying flames grow briefly as they consume the letter. Fire catches and the corners curl. As the paper begins to flake apart, a few blackened bits float into the air as though they were the feathers of a mockingjay, but really they are just ashes. Just like him. Just like Prim. And just like Catnip.