A/N: I'm so sorry it's been three weeks since I last updated. A combination of school and Halloween prep has kept me back but I hope this sneak peek is satisfying! I'm sorry that it can't be a full chapter but as I've said before, I hate rushing my writing and I'd rather wait a bit longer to finish than to produce something of half assed quality.

Enjoy!

Chapter Fifteen ~ Sneak Peek

Days pass and I don't see Peeta nor Delly.

When I have my lessons with Madge in the morning, she takes me out for lunch, and then Primrose drops by after her shifts to have dinner with me. The massive house feels almost barren without Peeta's presence in it. Like his smile alone is what brings the warmth to the building. Only now I don't know if I will ever see that warmth again. Not after Delly's news. Her lies.

Despite not being there for the lies, it didn't take long for word to reach Madge. As per her usual attitude, she didn't comment. In a way, I understand her desire to avoid the drama, especially when it has absolutely nothing to do with her. I wish I could be the same. It would actually make my stay here a lot easier. The idea of this charade going on, though, the idea of Peeta having the belief that this foetus is his; this baby has the same blood running through its veins that runs through his; that he would raise it and love it as his own . . . It makes me angry. By all means, I don't doubt that he would probably love the baby as much as his own even if it wasn't his but . . . he still has the right to know. Delly's deception shouldn't be allowed to pass. Especially not when it is clearly done with an agenda of some sort . . .

I've tried probing Madge for her opinion on the matter. Madge is an educator; a woman of knowledge and natural curiosity. If she thought there wasn't anything suspicious about it, maybe I'm overthinking the entire situation. But, then again, Primrose-an actual medical expert-swears by its impossibility. It could be possible that I'm just trying to find confirmation of my hatred towards Delly. For other people to confirm for me that I'm not being irrational. I've been trying my hardest to be fair and unbiased towards Delly and her actions but this . . . this is just too much. It has to be! And I know I'm not the only person who sees it.

I must also consider the fact that even Madge doesn't know about Peeta's fertility issue. Really, if Delly was trying to trick the world to trap her husband, this would be the perfect way to do it. Even I wasn't supposed to know and Primrose could be easily silenced, especially since Primrose doesn't seem too keen about raising her voice about it anyways.

I want to visit the house of flowers. I can't explain why, but I feel something drawing me there. It used to be about the gorgeous flora that rules the mechanism of the house, but now there's something else. Something about the time I saw Delly exit there with Gale. I can't even begin to explain where this . . . almost magnetic pull originates from, but I have always been trusting of my instincts. They've never betrayed me before and I don't believe they're deceiving me now.

It's getting colder. There's a bite to the air as I step outside and I've grown to realize that removing my shoes in such bitter weather does not bode well with my heat adjusted skin. I must wait for the days where the sun peaks out of the clouds to warm the ground again before I feel the grass between my toes. I silently cross the garden to the house, which I hope will be unlocked this time around. I'm working on the hope that the only reason the house was locked the previous time I visited was because Delly was trying to hide whatever was going on inside with Gale.

In a way, I'm right. The door is locked when I reach it but a key hangs from a nail coming out of the wood by a piece of ribbon. I retrieve the object and turn it in my hands. Keys fascinate me. Such small pieces of metal can unlock even the largest of doors. A key is the difference between a stranger and a familiar; someone who is trustworthy and someone who is deceitful; someone who will respect the secrets that owning such a thing could unlock, and not disgrace them.

I can't help but notice that Peeta always manages the keys to his shelter . . .

I unlock the door and enter the house. The flowers aren't as colourful as I remember and I think it has something to do with the seasonal change Madge explained to me today. Despite this, I still find every plant beautiful. Colour does not equate beauty, it simply brings attention to it. The leaves of these plants have lived their days and are withering with age. Sometimes the oldest things in this world can be the most gorgeous. Like the tress in my jungle and the very soil beneath my feet. I don't need colours and constant happiness to recognize beauty. I just need to look at something; whether it be an object; or a plant; or a living, breathing being; and know that it has lived its life to the fullest capacity it possibly could. There is nothing more pleasing than that knowledge.

There's a pathway that cuts through the glass house, up to the very middle where a stone bench sits. Someone is already sitting there, as if having expected me to come. Except I know he didn't, because when he looks up I can see the surprise on his face. Surprise and exhaustion. I know I've intruded on a time where he maybe wanted to be alone.

I lift my hands and sign.

"Peeta."