CHAPTER XXV

Peeta and I never talk about that night. We slept into late the next afternoon, periodically waking the other from a nightmare and curling back asleep In the morning when we part ways, he thanks me for what I did for his family, saving the items from the bakery, and for helping him finally have a decent nights rest. We fall back into our routine.

The problem is that over the next week, I notice the shadows under his eyes darkening. I sit in my windowsill and can see the faint light from his bedroom window late into the night. And yet, I seem to have lost my boldness. Something changed that night and I don't know how to put words to it. Things shifted. I don't regret it, but I suddenly feel much more unsure- timid really- a feeling so unfamiliar it feels like an itchy sweater.

It felt so good to not be alone in this big house. It felt good to know Peeta was safely within yelling distance. The voice in my head repeats the same phrase it has advised since I returned to 12: Peeta belongs here.

That house is cold and devoid of any feeling of home. He haunts the place, drifting from room to room without making a mark, without making it his. There are three unused bedrooms here and a kitchen I'd be happy to relinquish into his hands. Honestly, it's preposterous that each Victor of District 12 lives alone in a house that could easily sleep eight or more. The more I think about is, the more confident I become in this plan. It has hints of my trademark impulsivity, which only seems to spur me on.

Although a secret part of me wishes he could stay in my room and offer a better night's rest, I know that isn't the right move. Prim's room is out of the question and the guest room feels darker than the others. I take a fresh look at my mother's room. It is the nicest of the four, large and airy. If I move the vanity into the guest room, there would even be enough space for him to paint. Even better, the previously feminine colors have already been swapped with the more masculine items from Peeta's guest room. The issue is that the closets and drawers are still filled with my mother's items, but as I look at the room and imagine how wonderful it would be if it became Peeta's, the decision is simple.

I spend the next four hours removing, folding, and boxing up clothing, shoes, and the like. I put aside the dress I know my mother wore when she and Pa had their toasting, but the rest find their way into a box. The Capitol beauty supplies I had the prep team purchase for her end up in another. My mother is never going to come back, both in general and for anything here. She's moved on and started a new life for herself. I have no attachment to anything she abandoned here no matter how much I can relate to the lost items.

I try to find odd items to fill the room to make it feel less bare, but he and I will have to work on improving his ability to make it feel like home for him. Until then, I find the drawing of Prim and Peeta, the one where they're decorating cupcakes, and place it in a frame on the dresser.

I carry the boxes of clothing and ladies' toiletries over to Sae's. She'll be able to find good homes amongst the other women and save something special for herself. Sae gives me a close look but otherwise doesn't comment on my delivery and doesn't ask for an explanation of my sudden purging. I am grateful to her for that. It is a special gift to know when to push and when to let me be.

That night, I take another look at the new room, pleased with the results. When I return to my window and see the pale light again emanating from his room, I decide that, if I have anything to do with it, tonight will be the last night that light remains on.

"You aren't sleeping."

Way to go right out and say it, Katniss.

Peeta looks at me disconcertedly. It did come out more accusatory than I planned; blame it on the nerves. I lost my courage at breakfast, so when he arrived after lunch I jumped in with more enthusiasm than was required. "I- uh- I get enough." Well that's not even remotely true, Peeta.

"Sure, you do. Same as me, right? We both have no problems sleeping whatsoever."

His jaw clenches. Oops. I really didn't mean for this conversation to be so confrontational. "Fine, Katniss," he changes his tone to sound like he's talking to a doctor, "I struggle to fall asleep and the nightmares wake me up several times a night."

I pause and look at him meaningfully. "I know." After a bracing inhale I continue slowly, "Every single night I feel… I feel my mind stretching thinner and thinner until my memories explode outwards as if they've stepped on a land mine. And I'm no longer in bed, safe in 12, through with the war; I am back in the rubble, with sounds of screams and the sickening smell of burnt flesh and everything, everything, reeks of roses." I turn away and look out at the garden from my porch.

"There may be a new Panem, but there is still a war zone inside me."

I lean over the railing nervously picking at my weak nails. A weak voice starts, "My dreams use to flow, like a story playing in my mind. Good, bad, strange, it didn't matter, they had a shape, a structure to adhere. Now, my dreams are… they're nothing but anarchy. Images bash about my brain, scattered flashes of reality and lies attacking like an angry mob. Most come and go quickly. But others stay. It feels like they have rooted themselves into my head and play accomplice to every bit of chaos conjured. These," he shivers, "these are the worst. They are my darkest memories; heinous ones that I wish everyday were not real." He clutched at the railing with white knuckles. "The memory of feeling agony I never knew existed, hearing the disturbing sound of Jo's screams tangled with Annie's wails, and seeing Darius and Lavinia's remains handled no better than garbage after being forced to watch their excruciating deaths." He squeezes his eyelids shut and bangs his fist on his forehead four times. "If I could never sleep I would."

I grab his fist and stop it from continuing its assault. It shouldn't be so easy for me to forget that there are weeks of unimaginable atrocities that Peeta lived through while he was imprisoned. Things I will never fully know but he is forced to live with for the rest of his life.

"W-was it better that night? The night you stayed here?" I wish my voice wasn't so unsteady.

He halts his movement and turns the question over in his mind. "A little. It was less… disordered, I guess. The nightmares were all still there, but it helped to not be alone."

I nod. "Anchored. I always feel anchored."

It's time to ask the question. Come on spit it out. It shouldn't be so hard. "I-" I struggle. I can't get the words to come. "I want- I have-," I groan in frustration. "Just let me show you." I about face and march off. Peeta follows in my wake as I find myself stomping through the house and ascend the stairs. I throw open the new bedroom's door and walk inside. Peeta enters and looks around the room blandly.

"Move."

Peeta shifts back a step and presses out of the way. "No. Move. Move here. With me."

His head swivels around to meet mine. Shocked he stammers, "You-you want me to m-move in with you? Here?"

I confirm doubtlessly. "Yes. You belong here. I want this to be your home."

"Home?" He wraps his mouth around the word like it's a foreign fruit.

"Yes."

"You can't be serious."

That makes me irritated. How dare he think I'm not serious about this? This isn't some kind of joke. What kind of person does he think I am, to joke about such a thing? Can he not see how difficult this is for me? Does he not realize how much old Katniss would oppose this plan or any show of weakness or needing? This is a big thing for me. I'm trying so hard.

Feeling defensive, the room is now far too claustrophobic to remain. I wrap my arms around myself tightly, donning an armor to protect myself as best as I can. "Well, Peeta, I don't know about you, but I most certainly am serious. I made this room for you. I'm prepared to let you do whatever you want to the kitchen. I planned on neither one of us spending another night alone in these awful houses. I thought- I thought," I swallow back my feelings trying to slip out. "I thought we might be better together than apart. Take care of each other. But fine, do whatever you want." My emotions swell and I want to say more, but I don't.

I leave the room as quickly as my feet will take me and let them lead me deep into the woods, into sanctuary. I climb an old beech tree and sit in silence for hours. Birds begin to fly down and join me on the branch. I eventually begin to pass melodies back and forth between my companions, leaving them with a tune to carry on once I depart.

I don't expect Peeta to show up for dinner that night. As the minutes pass, and the meal gets cold, I realize I'll have to leave it on his doorstep. But when I open the door to carry over the container, I find myself standing face-to-face with my boy with the bread. In his hand is a duffel bag.

He smiles.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"There's tea in the kettle."

Living with Peeta has proven to be not that different than living alone. My days are filled with the same activities as they ever were. However now, as I rise before dawn to head out to the woods, my flour-covered housemate meets me. Beyond our poor sleeping habits, baker's hours and hunter hour's turn out to be much the same. Peeta has a knack for beating me to the kitchen. By the time I head down, he has a kettle on for me to fill my thermos before heading out to the woods.

As he's settled in, he's slowly overhauled the kitchen. During our first week of living together, each day new items would materialize. And as the kitchen grew, Peeta's baking increased. What began as one or two recipes for him to practice and for me to salivate over, soon multiplied. Once he saw the crew's jubilant reactions to the fresh bread he surprised Sae with, he couldn't resist making enough for everyone in the camp. After convincing him not to overwork himself, he's restrained himself to only dedicating two days a week to making loaves to feed the whole district.

I walk back to the house with Samson and two full bags of game. His shot is improving but he can only hit the slowest of the small game. Our walk is interrupted by shouts coming from an upstairs window. I look up and see the red face of my former Mentor leaning out.

"Get your ass in here, Mockingjay."

Oh, no 'sweetheart' today, I must really be in trouble. I hand Sam my bag and send him along. I have a feeling this conversation won't be for children's ears.

Walking into his house is like walking into the inside of his brain: full of tripping hazards and soaked in white liquor. I step over the toppled plate of decaying food but can't seem to avoid stepping into something sticky that proceeds to clings to my boot with every step. The sound of either a blundering man or a graceful bull thumps down the stairs

"Well there she is! The stupidest person in Panem," he shakes a finger at me. It might have been more effective if the hand attached to it wasn't sloshing liquor up his sleeve.

"And here's the drunkest. Aren't we an impressive pair?"

"I am seriously wondering if you've got brain damage because what on earth could possess you to do something so stupid. Are you trying to kill yourself? Because there are easier ways."

"What have you hauled me in here for?" I wrinkle my nose and push away a moldy towel with the toe of my shoe. "As much as I always enjoy our little chats, the smell in here is offensive. Really, Haymitch, this is repulsive, even for you."

"Oh no you don't, we're talking about you, girl on fire. I went to a hell of a lot of trouble to keep you alive and now you're just going to throw it all away?"

I roll my eyes like the teenager I really am. "Stop being so dramatic, Haymitch. Next you'll be wearing a wig and feathers worrying like Effie." Crossing me arms, I sigh. "I'm guessing you're not pleased about Peeta's new living arrangements. It only took you nine days."

His eyes widen. "Nine days?!"

I raise my eyebrows. I'm not about to repeat myself. Instead I turn around slowly, on display, as if some of Cinna's flames could be triggered at any moment. "And look, I'm alive. Not a mark on me besides the hundreds that were already there." He growls like the baby bear and throws himself into a piece of furniture that may have been a sofa at one time.

I tone down my attitude to try and make my point before he gets combative again. We really don't bring out the best in each other. "Haymitch, I know this is somehow coming from some weird place of concern. You probably don't even understand it yourself, but I appreciate it, really I do. Now let me ask you some things." I pace back and forth in front of him. "Would you say that over the years you've gotten a good handle on what makes me tick?" I watch him nod. "Would you say, out of everyone still in my life, you probably understand me best?" He snorts. "Probably. What does that say about either one of us?" I smirk. Doesn't say anything good that's for sure. I continue, "So do you honestly believe, after all you know about me, that I would ever do something like this unless I, one, already tried to talk myself out it, and two, was sure it wouldn't be a threat?"

His face sours, bitter at that truth. "Fine," he spits out then rubs up and down the crown of his head attempting to push past his vexation. "I'll never be able to erase the image of him strangling you, you understand that right? I think the world of the boy, a better person than any of us, but when he came at you I couldn't stop him. Damn it Katniss, if Boggs wasn't there you wouldn't be here right now."

My eyes drop and I swallow roughly, remembering the feeling of his grip. "I know Haymitch."

"So you're okay? He's fixed?"

"Haymitch," I try to look at him kindly, "he's just as unfixable as the two of us. But… he's better. I saw him lose it weeks ago, have an attack or flashback or whatever the doctors call them, and I could help him out of it. He didn't hurt me. I really believe that being alone in that house was going to make it worse. He shouldn't be left alone in his thoughts." I exhale and shake my head, "None of us should. I'm sorry, but look around, Haymitch, we lock ourselves in our mansions paid for in the blood of children. We fall off the deep end, disappearing into our nightmares. If I didn't think the two of us might kill the other, I would have you leave this…" I open out my arms to gesture to the wrecked room surrounding us, "…this dump and have you move in too."

He flashes his teeth, "Can you imagine the damage we would do if we were forced to be roommates?"

I ignore that. "Peeta and I will be okay, really, but Haymitch, how am I not suppose to worry about you when I see all this?" He waves me off. "I'm fine."

Liar. I squat down so I can look up at him, "We both know that's not true." Peeta tried to say he 'was fine' too. I stand and dust off my pants. "Don't keep making the same mistakes you have for the last 25 years. You need to find something to fill your days besides drinking and remembering. I don't care what it is- knitting socks, brewing beer, tending sheep- just do something. I'm tired of seeing the people I care about put in early graves."

Since Peeta moved in, after dinner most nights, the two of us spend the evening sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa as we work. He'll draw or journal and I'll read or whittle away at a block of wood. Some nights, we'll talk late into early morning others we'll sit in silence appreciating the other's presence without speaking a word. Each night, distance between us shrinks.

The boundaries return once we head to bed, both knowing that no matter how comforting it is to lie next to the other, the action would change everything and there would be no going back. We're not ready, yet, to have that conversation. Neither one of us is ready to risk the newfound balance we've found and keeping a line drawn helps maintain the informal agreement to keep things as they stand. That doesn't mean we don't check on the other during the night. Peeta will come and shake me awake when my night terrors get too loud, and I'll wake up one or two times a night to check on him and try to soothe whatever distress may be there.

I lean my temple on his shoulder and turn through the pages of the plant book. He leans his own my way, watching the pages flip by. "We've done this before haven't we?" He questions. I skip to one of his drawings, this one a flowering skullcap in a vibrant blue. "When I was put on bed rest after I fell trying to get over the electric fence, you would visit and we'd spend the afternoons in bed adding entries." I flip to another, this one is a drawing of garlic mustard, with its serrated veined leaves and white four-petal flowers. "You said it was the first normal thing we ever did together. Do you remember that?"

"I don't remember drawing this but I know it's my hand. I can tell the memory I have in my head has been altered, built from one of Snow's recording devices. But I can feel that whatever it originally was is a good memory. This is going to sound crazy, but I always think of it when I taste peppermint."

My forehead scrunches for several moments before I start to laugh. Incredible. "Despite everything, you can still remember the most extraordinary details. I had completely forgotten. I had a bag of peppermints on me when the Peacekeepers questioned me. You stole it and played catch with the others to distract the two officials. You pinched one every time you visited." He smiles at that. It must be a relief to know that his reactions aren't so bizarre, that they make sense in the context of the lost real memories.

That night we start a new routine of adding new entries to the book. He'll study something new in the garden or I'll bring in a cutting of something new from the woods. One night, while I add in my notes next to a drawing of oyster mushrooms, my attention is continuously pulled away to Peeta's focused sketching of what appears to be the 'morphling' siblings from District 6. I look from his pad and back to my book.

"We should put them all into a book. Somewhere they can all be remembered."

And so we began another new routine. Records and drawings of flowers were put aside for faces. We worked slowly, sometimes intensely hutched over the coffee table and other times laid across the couch in reflection. We began with the faces that haunt us the most: Rue, Finn, Mitchell, Darius and Lavinia, the Mellarks, even Prim once I build up enough strength. Each gets a page as we tell their stories as best we can. Peeta decides to make some calls and expand our research so we can include the details we don't know. It's hard, painful even, but it is also cleansing. We both feel better once a person finds their place onto a page. We begin to make a list of those that need a place but one sheet is not enough. Fallen Tributes, lost district neighbors, fallen soldiers, innocents- there are too many to count. Without either of us saying it, we know this is a vocation that will require years of our lives. But, unlike the people in the book, we are fortunate to have that kind of time to pay our respects.

Together, our days pass quickly and quietly. Spring has fully fled and summer reigns supreme. Blocks of new district buildings spring up from the dirt like the vegetables in my garden. The work crews multiply and the first train of new residents is expected in two weeks.

Peeta confronts me about my long sleeves and sweaters. In the sweltering heat, my clothing choices are obviously flawed. He compares my scars to his own. I mention how he hides his leg. Why are we pretending to be able to hide things from each other? We know what lies beneath and neither of us cares. So, he agrees to be better about his prosthetic and I agree to be better about my scars when we're alone but I refuse to consider letting others see me that way. I will be vulnerable with him but no one else.

When the summer heat becomes unbearable, I constantly daydream of spending a day swimming in the lake. Finally, the temptation becomes too strong and I wake up early, beating Peeta to the kitchen to pack lunch and supplies for a surprise trip the lake.

Although his stride is still clamorous, after acclimating him into the woods over the last few weeks, he is much less incongruous. After the hour's hike has left our sweat-soaked clothing clinging uncomfortably, we race into the lake as soon as it is in sight. The rush of cool water is glorious. I watch his strokes, pleased to see Peeta has retained some of what I taught him during the Quell. We splash and play like children, forgetting the rest of the world until our growling stomachs pull us back to reality. I lead him to a large tree where we can picnic under its shady branches sprinkled in butter colored blossoms. We savor the peacefulness, as we drip dry and refuel.

"What kind of tree is this?" He asks, wiping the crumbs from his lips.

"A linden." I lift up on my elbow and prop my chin on my palm. "I've always loved linden trees, this one especially. My father and I would come out here every summer to fish, and when we needed some shade to hide from the sun, we'd retreat under this one and its flowering branches. I'd scurry up its limbs and collect the blooms to take back to my mother for medicines for nerves and colds. We'd always pluck extras to snack on," I hop up to my feet and reach towards a cluster on a low-hanging branch. "Here, try." I pop one into my mouth and hand the rest to him as I settle back down into the grass.

"It's sweet," he tastes then tries another. "The bees love them. You can eat the bark and leaves too. The budding leaves taste best," I show him so he knows I'm not lying.

"They're shaped like hearts," he comments as he holds up a larger leaf to the sun.

"Pa thought they were shaped like hearts because it was a tree for lovers." My face reddens upon the realization of my comment and our position. I distract myself by explaining, "He had a story about them. According to him, there were once two beggars looking for shelter and food, but no one would give them sanctuary until they knocked on the door of a kind old couple. To thank the couple for their generosity, the two beggars said they would grant them whatever they desired most. After the husband and wife discussed the offer, they asked when the time comes for one of them to die, they might leave this earth at the same time so as not to be parted in sorrow." My eyelids flutter shut. The end of this story was always my favorite part. "When the time came for their souls to move on, the couple was transformed into a pair of trees, one oak and one linden, intertwined in their love and devotion."

"That's beautiful," he says reverently. "Have you ever seen an oak and linden tree like that?"

I open my eyes and grin unashamedly. I can always count on Peeta understanding. "No, but I always check. But maybe they are just too different. They belong to different worlds, might even be grown from different soils. But I can't help myself from hoping one day I'll find them just as his story told."

"You know, when I was a boy I used to collect the bright red leaves that fell from the oak trees in autumn." That is a precious picture to imagine. "Why those?" He shakes his head and laughs. "It's silly." He tries to leave it at that but I wait for him to elaborate. "That first day at school, when you stood up to sing for the class, I watched you as you skipped home. You looked like a bright, red oak leaf dancing in the wind. You practically floated on air. Your red dress fluttered without care and I swore at any moment you might fly away. I'd never seen anything so free and pure."

I smile at him tenderly, and then break the tension by throwing a linden flower at him. He opens his mouth and catches it. We toss linden flowers into each other's mouths and laugh at how ridiculous the other looks until we are on our backs giggling in the shade. Settling down, I hear Peeta beside me, "The old couple, I want that someday. Maybe that kind of thing is only in stories. I know if my mother were offered anything in the world, it would not have been to die alongside my dad. Ironic given how they died together," he says astringently.

I roll my head to the side and try to reply wryly to lighten the mood. "Peeta, your mother wouldn't have helped the beggars in the first place." I get a small chuckle out of that.

"We can't pick our family. Sometimes they fail us. Sometimes they hurt us," I look at him significantly, "or maybe they just neglect us. And there is nothing we can do about it. It just is. But you know what I learned from Sae? My mother may have given me life, but Sae became a real mother to me when she chose to be there when I needed her the most. And you may have been the child born of your mother, but I promise you that Effie loves and cares for you as if she carried you for nine months herself." My voice becomes confident. "I can either say my family is gone and I'm all alone in the world, or I can redefine what family means. How would you define family?"

He considers the question for a long time before answering. "Family accepts you for who you truly are. They are there to support you and wish the best for you."

"I like that," I affirm. "I think it's someone who takes the time and cares enough be a part of your life and wants you to be a part theirs." I brush a stray leaf from his hair. "Peeta, by those definitions, we've cobbled together a pretty decent family. An untraditional one, but I'm still thankful for it."

I point out the waving arrowhead shaped leaves at the waters edge. I take off my boots and wade into the shallows of the lake to pull out a large handful of my namesake. I present the wild katniss with pride and show him my favorite spot to fish.

As we spend the rest of the morning fishing he confides about the pressure to re-open the bakery. Thom and the guys are huge supporters of Peeta and his baking but in their enthusiasm he's left overwhelmed and guilty. He says a lot of words to express something that I understand without needing to hear more than a few. It isn't such a troubling conundrum to me. I understand the struggle; it's not as complex as he's making it.

"Maybe you need to see it from another angle." I paint a picture for him as I reel my line back in. "I love going to my woods every day. It makes me feel closer to my father. I find it satisfying to bring in food for the others when I can. But wouldn't it be something completely different if I became the town hunter or butcher?" I recast my line. "Then I would have to do it every day. I'd have to give up other things I might enjoy to spend that time on my new business. I think having to meet orders and stick to schedules would turn something I love into something I would grow tired of, maybe even someday hate.

"Plus, I have to be honest with myself and know my limits." I quiet my voice. "Peeta, we've been through a lot. It's left permanent marks. I have good days but then I have bad days. And sometimes I have really bad days. I can't predict when each will hit. I can own my brokenness and be okay with it, but I don't want to become more ashamed of it than I already am by failing to meet unreasonable expectations." I smirk and lift my right shoulder in a shrug. "And to be blunt, we're barely 18-years-old. After years of being forced into things, I don't want to have to do anything at least until I'm 20."

"So I should say no?" He asks as he reels in his own line a couple of feet.

"Oh, I didn't say that." I quickly reply. I'm not telling him yes or no, just trying to remind him that he has to think about what is best and healthiest for himself. He looks at me baffled, "You didn't?"

"Peeta, I just want you to think about what you really want. What makes you feel better and what makes you feel worse each day? When you wake up, what is worth getting out of bed for? Do those things and, frankly, screw the rest." I look him square in the eye. "Answer me this: would running the District 12 bakery make you feel content?"

His face tightens, not liking that question. "After everything, I don't think it's enough to push away the darkness. But it feels important for me to ensure that District 12 will continue to have a Mellark's Bakery to serve its citizens. I… I like baking every morning but making bread and selling bread all day long does sound like a lot of work and a bit boring. Even before, my brother and I were planning on spitting the duties so I wouldn't have to make the same things every day and could focus on decorating. But I can't do that now."

I look at him skeptically, "Why not?" I correct, "I don't mean splitting with your bother. But, why can't you honor your family and have a Mellark's Bakery and find someone else to run it? You can share the recipes you think are important; even train them if you don't think they have the right 'Mellark' talent. You could even still decorate special orders." I reel in a jumpy catfish while I can feel Peeta's wheels turning. Once the fish is securely plopped into the basket I point out to him, "Prim is the one who reminded me I could make demands because they wanted me to be their Mockingjay. I'd wager you could make your own rules much the same."

He remains deep in thought for next half hour as I reel in a second fish and he brings in his first, but by far the largest. I enjoy the quiet but a question is gnawing at me. "Is there anything that would be enough to push out the darkness?"

He pulls out his line and places the fishing rod to the side. "This right now, this chases away a little of it. The little traditions we've created together chases a bit more. I think if I could do something to really help other people that could chase away even more."

"Like what?" I wonder. There's a world of possibilities but I can't really think of what he'd be imagining.

"You can't laugh okay? It might be stupid. It's just something I've been thinking a lot about lately." I nod reassuringly.

"The other day I called Effie and had her get confirmation that our Victor houses are considered our personal property to do with however we please." I tip my head in confusion. Why would that matter? "They are, by the way." "Okay?"

"I guess I should explain it better. You know enough about my nightmares and a little of what I saw in the Capitol. I'd like to do something for the Avoxes. I couldn't do anything to save Darius or Lavinia. And there are too many nameless others that I saw while I was kept there. They were as much prisoners as I was. Worse so, they weren't even treated like people. What are they to do now? Where can they go?

"I- Well, I don't know anything about Avoxes, but I do know I have a giant house going to waste. Even if you kicked me out someday, I don't plan on ever returning to that house. It'll never be home for me. When I could be free again, the first place I wanted to go was 12. It's a place as unlike the Capitol as you can get. Maybe they'd feel the same. Maybe, I could offer my house and my help so they can have a new start."

It's a good idea, generous and kind and so very Peeta. With all that the new government has to work on, I wonder if any of them have even thought about the Avoxes. This could be something he can do as penance for his self-assigned sins. "I think it's an incredible idea. When we get back tonight, we can write a letter to Pollux. He may have some ideas of what many of the Avox want and need."

"You really think it could work?" He asks, eyes brightening. The blue irises sparkle like the lake behind him. I shake myself from their hypnotic pull. "I do."

As the sun moves across the sky, we decide it's time to head back. I pack up the fish basket and game bag of plants, but when I stand up Peeta has disappeared. Looking around, I find him thoughtfully staring up at the linden tree twiddling something small in his hand. As I near, I recognize the yellow bursting head and lanky stem of a dandelion. Where did he find that?

I stand next to him and wait for him to shake out of his contemplations.

"Why did you pick one of these all those years ago?" He softly asks. The question sounds like it is for himself and not for me, but I want to answer anyway. "I forgot that you saw me do that." I slip the weed from between his fingertips.

"I was so embarrassed that day. I wanted to thank you and apologize for getting you hurt, but when I saw you I had no idea what to say. So, I said nothing. I watched you across the schoolyard so very grateful for giving me two loaves of bread and a little hope to cling to. When I looked down, I saw it there, sprouting between us: the first bloom of spring. It wasn't just some scraggly flower; it was a new beginning. I had spent months in so much fear I had forgotten everything my father taught me. But, when I saw that dandelion, every lesson he taught me, every story he told me, they all came flooding back. If I could find dandelions, I could keep us safe."

"What makes them so special?"

"They don't look like much, but there is much more to them than first appears. They are tough and dependable, very difficult to get rid of. Pa taught me that you could eat every part of it, from roots to petals." I lift its bright head to my nose to catch its earthy scent. "He had a silly story about the wind falling in love with a dandelion."

Peeta moves closer. "Tell me."

"Um, well," nervous at his intensity, I take a deep breath and try to recall my father's words. We were sitting together in a field of dandelions. A few still had on their yellow coats, but most had gone to seed surrounding us in white puffs that I could blow into the wind. The seeds would sweep up and dance for us midair.

"There were once four brothers: the West Wind, the East Wind, the North, and the South. The South Wind was the gentlest brother, blowing softly so he could enjoy the beauty of the world. One day in a meadow, he spied a beautiful girl dressed in green and glowing under the sun. He wanted to go to her side, but he was shy. He decided to watch her from afar, but swore that the next day he'd introduce himself. When the next day came, he again lost his courage. He was afraid of scaring her away. Day after day, he returned hoping he would finally be brave enough to show her his heart, but each day he hesitated.

"Then, one day, she no longer glowed in the sunlight, her radiance was shrouded in a green shawl. Not wanting to bother her while she was hiding, the South Wind vowed to return the next day and ask her to marry him." I place the dandelion behind Peeta's ear and smile at the childish sight. "When he returned to the meadow in the morning, he realized he waited too long. The girl was gone and an old woman with white hair was in her place. The South Wind cried out in grief. The cry brought a great gust of wind and the air was suddenly filled with silvery puffs. When he looked up, she had disappeared, blown into the distance."

Peeta takes another step closer, his toes now touching mine, and stares at me with fire behind his eyes. "I don't want to wait too long. You can't disappear on me."

I gingerly place my palm over his heart. "I won't, I promise I'll stay. Always."

He whispers, "You love me, real or not real?"*

I look into his eyes so filled with warmth and tenderness. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without," that's what Gale said in Tigris' bunker. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."* All that statement tells me is that Gale may have known me the longest, but he didn't know me best. I can easily survive without either of them. I can survive completely alone. Surviving is what I do best. The struggle is all I've ever known.

But I'm done hoping to merely survive. After everything that's happened, I want to live.

"You love me, real or not real?" That's what he asked me. Peeta's arms wrap around me and the lyrics to The Valley Song repeat in my head: here it's safe, here it's warm. I look at him, and for the first time, I can picture a future for my life. I look at him and can see my home. I let the tip of my nose trace along his chin.

I tell him, "Real." *

*Direct quotes from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

Author's Note: There is only the epilogue left. Thank you all for joining me in this journey. It was a labor of love and I wasn't sure I would ever publicly share it, however your responses have been so supportive. i wish you and your families much safety and happiness.