I pull my father's old hunting jacket closer to me as I trudge through the night in his hunting boots. I can feel the ash, kicked up by a freezing wind, settle on my face, and I feel cleaner and more at home with it there. I turn my head from side to side, looking at the paused rebuilding of District 12. It's so still, so dark, so quiet- just as it was before the Games on similar nights. I bite my cheek to stop the tears from falling when I see a yellow flower growing up through the ash. It's a primrose. I don't bend down to pluck it, I don't squash it. I'll just let it grow, as it should.
I make the mistake of focusing on one of the crumbling buildings. The metal letters have melted into deformed, miserable shapes, but I know what it once read. "Mellark Bakery." I bite my lip and find something to lean against. I realise with a gasp that it's the same spot that Peeta gave me the bread. I punch it with the side of my fist, and I can feel the splinters digging into my skin, but I feel more at home with them there. I want to scream to the skies, cursing whoever you do. But I didn't. My misery didn't have to be inflicted on others.
They needn't be concerned anyway.
I continue walking, watching my feet take me through the lonely road. If I could bring myself to look around, I'd know where I was. It's my home, that's all I need to know. It's all I've ever known. I don't even have a shadow, there's no light to cast one. Nursing my bruising hand close to my chest, I can feel my heart beating through the jacket, see the clouds of my warm breathe in the cold air, hear the silence, and it's the closest I've felt to alive since, since-
I don't even remember.
My stomach drops when I notice where I am. I can see the once-electric fence not too far off. The rope which would tie the goat to the try fell limply to the ground. The door is swinging in the wind, because no one bothered to close it when they left. A gaping hole in the roof allows me to see our old bedroom, and some of the downstairs too, from outside. Everything is covered in ashes. I creep in as if I wasn't walking into my own home, and it feels like I'm walking over a grave. I stand in the room letting tears wash away the dirt on my face, looking up at the moon which has appeared from behind the black clouds.
A glint catches my eye and I look across the floor to see a shattered photo frame just under the torn and tattered sofa. I sit down carefully onto it. They way I carry out the simple task is laboured, but my back is straight and as my hands fall into my lap I'm reminded of Effy. I reach under to retrieve the frame, not knowing what to expect. It's a montage of pictures. Prim's first day at school and my first appearance in the Capitol have been slipped in front of our mother and father on their wedding day. I trace over my family's faces, and more tears drop onto the broken glass.
I didn't notice it before, but Peeta hasn't been cut out, the picture of us is folded in half. I take it out of the frame and smooth the image out with my rough fingers. My cold gaze and shallow smile are focused on the crowd, but Peeta is looking at me. Yes, he is facing the crowd and waving his hand, the one not joined in mine, but he is looking at me. The look in his eyes is so genuine, and it pulls on my heart strings. I clench my fist, as if I expected his hand to be there and squeeze back.
But I know it won't be.
The moon disappears and so does my sight. The pictures remain in my lap. I hang my head and close my eyes, hiding my tears. It's good that it's dark; I don't have to acknowledge anything yet. I can pretend for a while. My breathe hitches when I feel a palm on mine. My fingers involuntarily interlock with his. I think, no, I know I've gone too far. I can't pretend that much. I open my eyes to try and dispel the illusion, but I see a shadow instead, and it's not mine. The heavy thud of the mechanical leg; the dip of the cushion next to me makes me want to smile.
But I'm not sure I remember how.
I feel him let go of my hand and I look up. His beautiful blue eyes are hidden behind his mop of blonde hair which has darkened with the soot in the air. The creases by his mouth indicate his intense concentration. It scares me a little how well I know him. I look down when I feel him take my hand again. He's plucked the primrose I saw earlier, and I frown a little, until I notice what he's done with it. The stalk has been tied into a loop, like a ring, and he's put it on my left ring finger. I should want to cry or smile or laugh, but I don't. It just feels as if it should have been there all along, as if I've had it for years.
His voice is hoarse and laced with anxiousness.
"You love me." He says and I nod in affirmation. I've never been good with words. I forget he can't see me.
"Real or not real?" I lean over and kiss his cheek softly. I whisper into his ear- it's so intimate, so careful, it feels so much more-
"Real."