It is early in the morning and the office building is unusually lively. Chatter and footsteps fill the empty spaces of the floor, and the smell of coffee clings to the air. His entrance seems to bring on more energy, with people approaching him as though they were moths and he were a source of light. He is met by cheerful greetings, handshakes, and congratulations. Pride fills the office space, and this is because the results for last week's poll were posted last night. He is winning by a landslide, a sizable sixty-three percent that he intends to keep for the remainder of the election season.

At first, he entertains the congratulatory crowd, forcing himself to match their energy. But he quickly tires of this seemingly endless field, and so he excuses himself. He pours himself coffee, and retreats to his office to prepare for what today has to bring him. As he does so, his eyes glaze over the digital clock on his desk, becoming slightly impatient as his friend and campaign manager doesn't come in until a few hours later, when he's already overly weary of the attention. Some people are still knocking at the window of his office, waving and giving him a thumbs up, and he's considering pulling out his headphones so he'll have an excuse to ignore him.

But he doesn't do that. His campaign manager's voice echoes in his head, recalling what she told him the first time he mentioned running for office.

"Remember the three Ps, Gale: Punctual. Polite. Positive."

He releases a sigh as he begins to mess around with the documents he has to look through for the day, opening two and moving them so that they can both be opened at the same time. As he skims through them, he taps the end of a pen against his notebook, while his other hand scrolls through to see how many pages he has to read, how many markers there are, and what comments his officemates have made pertaining them. He grows bored easily, so he is only thankful when he hears the rhythmic knock on the door.

"Come in, Sophie." He recognizes her from the knock, the young girl always has her own. She changes it every now and then, depending on what music she's learnt from the entertainers, but she'll always make herself easy to distinguish, which is exactly what he asked of her when she was first hired.

At his approval, Sophie opens the door, but only partly. She uses the door and her body as something of a barrier between his office and the rest of the floor. "Mr. Hawthorne, there's a woman here. She's a reporter with The Tribune. She doesn't have any sort of appointment, but she was hoping she could have a quick word with you. Emphasis on quick."

"Did you get this reporter's name?" He furrows his brows and takes the remaining attention he reserved for his work and gives it to his assistant, as she is acting strange. Sophie will usually tell him a visitor's name if one should ever stop by. In fact, she'll usually call him if someone is there to see him.

"Yes, and she's got the proper identification. She checks out." She swallows hard, almost looking nervous. "But she asks that she remains anonymous for now. She wants you to see her for yourself. She thinks you wouldn't believe it. She promises you'll recognize her. Or, at least, she hopes you would."

He wants to think that this might be Katniss coming to see him, that what Sophie is saying is untrue and Katniss told her to say those things because she wants to surprise him, but that isn't true. It might be Cressida, but he hasn't seen her since the war. The last he's heard, she's busy making films with her crew.

"Alright, just let her in," he surrenders.

Sophie smiles and turns around. Gale doesn't say anything, but he hears her whisper, "Good luck," to his visitor.

He hears a breathy laugh, and then footsteps. This reporter is wearing heels. It cannot be any of the women he knows, the only one who wears heels is his campaign manager, and due to their friendship, she barges into his office whenever she pleases.

But the mystery is quick to end as she steps through the door, and shuts it behind her. At first, it is her frame he sees. Her blonde hair kept out of her face and tied behind her with a pink ribbon, the style showing off her strongest features: her cheekbones, slightly tinted with a natural pink glow. When she faces him, when his glance meets hers, he grows pale and his mouth dries. He loosens his tie, though he is aware that it is not the problem, and gestures toward the seat.

"I must say, Mr. Hawthorne, I never pegged you for a politician." She smirks as she takes the seat opposite of his desk, crossing her ankles and resting her hands on her lap. He watches her closely, afraid that she might disappear in any moment. His stomach twists, reminding him of the guilt that took him years to escape from. "You've always hated us townspeople."

He takes a second to regain his composure, though he feels it's a moment too long. "You know what they say, Miss Undersee. People change." He swallows hard, and when he blinks, he's taken back to that day in District 12. To the bombings. To when he stood outside of her house, watching it burn and the few survivors run away from it. "But I could say the same thing to you. You've always hated journalists."

She smiles at his recollection, relief that even after all of these years, he hasn't forgotten her and their time together, however meaningless it might've been for him. "No, I hated Caesar Flickerman," she corrects him. "And I still do. But he's no journalist. At least, I refuse to acknowledge him as such."

He can't help but allow a smile to bloom on his features. There is a mixture of emotions stirring within him. Relief that she is still alive. Anger for her that she allowed him to think she's been dead all those years. Sadness that they couldn't have spent more time together. Anger for himself for not making sure if she was dead, for simply just taking everybody's word for it. For not picking up the paper often enough to perhaps see her name on it.

"Fair enough," he replies simply. "Now, about this interview…"

"Let's get started," she agrees, reaching into her purse to take out her voice recorder. She sets on his desk, and pulls out a notepad and a pen.

She starts him off with an easy question: how he feels about the poll results. Despite the practice he's had for occasions like these, he isn't perfect. He stumbles through some sentences, he uses far too many filler words for his liking, and his focus is elsewhere. He knows exactly where his mind is, and perhaps she does, too. He can't help but continue to go back in time through his memories, to when life was both simpler and more complicated, to their days before the rebellion and during Katniss's turn in the games. And he can still see it clearly. A younger version of the two of them, running through a field of grass, him trying to lose her but her always making her way back to him. A younger version of the two of them arguing, yet still sticking together, yet still coming back to each other. A younger version of himself watching as she spins, her blonde hair dancing with the breeze, and him smiling as he picks the grass off the field. And when he can tell she's getting dizzy, he gets up and holds his arms out for her, prepared to catch her if she falls.

As promised, the interview doesn't last long. Madge tells him that this is a short section, just a blurb about the elections that they will include with the results.

She collects her things and puts them in her small bag. "Look for the article in a few days. Thank you for agreeing to see me this morning, Mr. Hawthorne. I hope you have a fantastic day. Make sure you celebrate." She stands from the seat and gives him a small smile before she turns to exit.

"Madge?" He calls, a lump forming in his throat as she looks over her shoulder. "It was nice to see you again."

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please comment and favorite, and let me know what you think!

A hint for the next chapter: A piano, coffee, and strawberries.