Prologue
My daughter runs through the woods, pixelated on our small television screen, but I can still make out her trembling fingers and terrified face, much like I was twenty-two years ago. But I'm still haunted by the ghosts of tributes whose blood is in my hands, who died in my arms, who sacrificed themselves for a rebellion that failed. I am haunted by the ghosts who died in vain.
I clutch Peeta's sweaty palm as he watches with eager eyes. We both fear to see her eyes cloud over, and fear the day when Finnick, our son, will have to walk into the reaping with trembling hands.
Peeta's breaths are heavy and loud, but somehow they comfort me. He's done so much for me, and I love him. It's real, it's all real.
"Real" I whisper under my breath, quiet enough for Peeta and Finnick not to hear.