"Hope is the dandelion that flies in the wind and goes over the flames to land upon a new patch of grass."

My hands are stretched out, seeking to grab something that is no longer there. I touch a tree, weakly at first, but then I recognize the smell and the texture and I lunge forward. My eyes aren't working, but it isn't as if I'm not used to rely on my other four senses; still, I know there should be an entrance somewhere. I try and I try and my hands are everywhere, but the wood is merciless. It mocks me. It took my bow and my arrows and it won't give them back.

Only this time I don't up give up and I fall on my knees, feeling the grass brush my bare legs. It makes sense, I think, since the hideout isn't in the tree, maybe it fell too and I just need to find it. Only that while I'm searching the grass my ears pick up a familiar cry and my arms paralyze on the spot. The mutts. There is only so much I can think before I hear them approaching in full speed and I climb the tree, holding on to it for dear life. But they're here already, they're here and they're at my heels, and I can't find other branches to climb to and one of the mutts snaps in two the branch I was standing on and I fall, fall, fall to their starving open mouths…

There is a jolt of electricity coursing through my body as I sit down and place my right hand over my heart to keep it from beating any faster. I don't scream: nightmares these days seem unable to make me scream, plus I am not interested in waking up Peeta when he himself doesn't get many good nights like he seems to be having this week… it's too late though, he's awake already, probably because I turned around the sheets too much or made some kind of noise. And even though I have these nightmares every other night, even though they lurk and linger and fester as if they've become a third occupant of this big house, it still isn't enough for the man named Peeta Mellark to stop caring and go back to sleep; it still isn't enough for him not to hold me in his arms, to not groom my hair behind my ears and to not plant little kisses on my temples, on the corners of my eyes, on my jaw line.

Once again, the boy with the bread takes care of the girl who was set on fire to burn until all that was left of her were broken fragments and charred remains.

It's been almost five years since we moved back to what's left of District Twelve, but the painful memories of the Games, of the War, of losing Prim still remain as fresh as they've ever been. Peeta also suffers everyday because he lost his entire family, but somehow he still puts my pain before his own everytime.

"Go back to sleep", I tell him, "It's okay now, I'm awake and I'm okay."

And still he doesn't stop. He knows I'm not okay. How could I ever be? But he remains silent and lays back, pulling me down with him. He keeps his arm around me and softly kisses my forehead until I fall asleep again. No nightmares this time around.

You see, five years ago, it wouldn't be quite like this. I would go back to sleep, yes, but not as eagerly as I go now, and that gives me hope. It makes me think that, even though the pain is still fresh, there are some things that have changed.

They say time makes you forget, heals all your wounds, but what really does that is doing something, anything. At first you just do, and then you feel. Then you start feeling good, better, and you do things better too; better than you thought you could manage, anyway. Peeta bakes and paints; I hunt and stare. I was getting really good at staring, mostly at whatever Peeta was doing at the moment or engaging in a staring contest with Buttercup just for the sake of it, but there are times when I feel something else emerging, something other than the pain and that other feeling that has become grounded and steady and is the most real thing I have going on my life. It's that something else that makes me want to do a bit more everyday: cook a rabbit stew, tie a pretty ribbon around my hair, pull Peeta's hand so we can go lie down and watch the stars on our courtyard. These are the little things I am working hard to treasure and to protect, to yearn for and to guide me through difficult times.

It is during one of those precious moments, one where Peeta went to get the mail in the morning but not without leaving me with a scrumptious breakfast of bread, jam, butter and milk that he returns with a letter in his hands and I know without needing to hear what this is going to be about. The look on his face says it all. I hadn't seen it on him for five years, but I still remember it.

"It's a letter from District Two", he says coldly. He's suddenly acting this way because that letter is obviously from Gale. I had managed to put him in the back drawers of my mind, managed to almost never think of him for two reasons: because I had bigger fish to fry - pain-wise -, and because Peeta has made me feel so happy and so complete that I never had the need to stop and wonder if I had made the right choice. The only times I think of him are when I'm hunting all alone. But I refuse to miss him, because what he did to Prim was unforgivable.

I open the letter and read it out loud:

"Dear Katniss,

I know it's been long, too long. I've often thought about you and how you're faring. I hope all is well with you and Peeta.

The reason why I'm writing to you is to tell that I've been invited to become a Minister for the government. People are insisting that the Mockingjay and her husband should be present to represent District Twelve in the ceremonies. It would mean the world to me if you would come. Please let me know.

Love,

Gale"

One thing stands out to me in that letter and my eyes keep returning to those words: "it would mean the world to me". Mean the world… what does that mean to him, I wonder, mean the world? What is he trying to really say? I know that, even though we are under a new government, there are still excellent chances that all our correspondence is being surveilled, and this letter doesn't look like who-used-to-be-my-friend Gale wrote it, but more like a businessman/politic version of him. Suddenly a wave of many mixed emotions makes its way around my head: I revel in outrage, anger, sorrow, and there's a bit of sadness, too. I must have made a weird face because Peeta is already by my side, squeezing the hand that is not busy crunching the paper. I stop before I go any further, though; after all it's just harmless paper, it's not really its fault.

The letter is accompanied by two invitations to a ceremony, asking in small letters for a formal dress code. I put all the papers away, take deep breaths like Dr. Aurelius has taught me to do when things become too much and carefully choose my next words so as not to break me in the process of speaking.