She almost wishes their house had been looted during the riots, but when she unlocks their – no, it's just hers now – front door, it's as though she never left. Her everyday sandals still sit on the doormat next to his athletic shoes, and when she looks farther down the hallway, she can see seven-month-old dirty breakfast dishes still waiting to be washed. Annie supposes it was easier to pretend that they would both be home a few minutes after the Reaping than admit that at least one of them likely would never come home again.
Another day without washing won't hurt the dishes. She pokes her head out to thank Mrs. Everdeen for walking her home and goes upstairs. The third stair squeaks like it always has, and Annie swears under her breath at it like she always does. Some things never change.
It's been a long trip, and she wants nothing more than sleep. That's a lie. She would gladly be exhausted for every minute of every day for the rest of her life if another wish could come true. But there is no gracious deity extending that offer, so she trudges up the hall to the master bedroom.
His pajamas are still lying on the floor in a crumpled heap, and she'll never have a chance to scold him for it.
She knows she'll never learn to call it her bed. It's too large for one person, and Annie can't help but reach out and touch his side, hoping to find some impossible, lingering warmth there, but it's just her now.
That's a lie as well. She rolls up her nightgown and presses her hand to the slight swell of her belly, glad that she doesn't have to be alone.