Cold, lifeless bodies lie fallen in the ash, pure masks of terror frozen upon their abnormally coloured faces. Wigs litter the ground, their curls smeared with ash, and large handbags spew out lipstick and eye shadow. Glitter is swept up by the wind, and carried through the air until it falls and settles on the bodies. Nearby, an area surrounded by broken strings of wire is filled with the bodies of dead children. Most have dyed skin and large, lopsided wigs, but one is different. Golden hair and pale blue eyes. No wigs, no makeup, no tattoos. Just a small body, clinging desperately to a young girl, who is also dead, looking as though she had tried to throw her coat on the victim. The wind blows again, and the glitter and ash once again lifts and is carried out of sight across the air. The golden hair of the girl flutters in the breeze, and her glassy eyes show no emotion. Something else is carried by the wind. A mixture of petals from a flower. Who would have known that flowers existed in a place so artificial. But there they are, the pale yellow petals as the drift through the wind, before falling lightly onto the girl's fragile body. The delicate petals found their way home. They found their way to Primrose Everdeen.