"I'll be waiting when the day's over."

I'm outside the school building, watching my older two sons bouncing up the steps, jostling their friends on the way inside. A new school year, a grade higher. For them, it's just another day. But for the boy shadowing me, it's much more than that.

Peeta is five years old and today, he starts school for the first time. His eyes are wide and thoughtful as he takes in the scene. He seems to register the details of our surroundings, taking it all in. While all my boys definitely inherited my physique, Peeta's the only one who I believe got my same shyness. The other two are sharper tongued and rash, more like their mother.

Even though all the kids his age are lining up at the door, Peeta is still hesitant to leave my side. His blonde curls shine golden in the morning sunlight. Looking up, I see a little girl his age join the line. Her brown hair is plaited in two neat little braids that hang down the back of her red plaid dress. I know who she is, having kept tabs on her mother.

"See that little girl," I say to Peeta. "I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner." I know he won't really grasp everything I'm saying, and it's more for my sake than his, but I hope the story will make him forget some of his nerves.

"A coal miner?" he frowns. "Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"

My heart gives a little twinge. I'm quiet for a moment, recalling the strong young man she'd fallen for. "Because," I say at last, "when he sings… even the birds stop to listen."

My son's face fills with awe as he processes what I've said. It takes a moment, but eventually he lets go of my hand and joins the rest of the line. I swallow hard as they go into the school building. They grow up so fast. Too fast.

.

.

Later that afternoon, I wait outside for the boys to be dismissed from school. The older kids come out of the building first, calling out to one another, and going on about coal and math and teachers. The younger kids follow, a little less boisterously. Unlike his brothers, Peeta doesn't say a word the whole walk home. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure he's alright, but he doesn't look unhappy - just thoughtful. He's not a word waster... like me.

When evening falls, my wife goes to the public market to barter for some spices and herbs. She's much better at that than I am - she can haggle the price like nobody else. The older boys are upstairs, messing around with some schoolwork, so it can only be one person that I hear pad downstairs and creak the door to the kitchen open. I hurriedly finish closing up the shop in the front, then duck into the back.

Little Peeta is covered in flour from head to toe. He has put several ingredients in a bowl, but has combined wet and dry ones, so it is more of a mush than a batter.

"What are you trying to make, Peeta?" I ask, my heart quickening as I realize what a fit my wife will have when she sees all this wasted flour. It costs so much and we have barely enough as it is.

"Strudel," he replies without looking up.

I'm speechless for a moment, then pull myself together. My wife may be good at the market, but the kitchen is my place of strength. "Peeta, the first thing you need is a recipe."

He looks up at me uncomprehendingly. "But I watch you make this all the time."

"But recipes help guide you until you can memorize them," I explain, sweeping the flour that can be salvaged bag into the tin. "That way, you don't make a mistake."

"Oh," he looks down at the bowl, then back up at me. "Can you teach me how to do recipes?"

Despite the mess and the wasted, precious ingredients, I have to smile. "Of course. But you need to understand something first. These ingredients are valuable. They are rare. We must only use what we have to when making something."

He nods earnestly.

The next few hours I spend in the kitchen with my youngest son teaching him how to make his very first strudel. His hands are steady, and even at this young age, I can see he'll be a great baker one day. I try not to help too much, just instruct him, because the first step to learning is discovery. The result isn't the prettiest item, but in Peeta's eyes, it's the very best thing he's ever made. It's his masterpiece.

"What are you going to do with it now?" I ask him. My wife will kill me for wasting the time and the resources to make this good that we can't sell, but one look at the pride on my son's face and I decide I made the right decision. "Eat it?"

"No," he inhales the smell wafting from the pastry. "I'm giving it to someone."

"Who?"

"Katniss."

Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. The daughter of the fair haired-woman I'd fallen for so long ago. I smile sadly the memory of her gentle hands, her intense look when making brews, and I nod slowly.

"I'm sure she'll love it," I tell him. "Why don't we wrap it up and you can give it to her tomorrow?"

I decide to hide the strudel on the top shelf of the pantry. I know my wife will never allow Peeta to just give away a pastry without payment, even if it isn't window display material. I'm just clearing a space for it when I hear the sound of the door opening in the front. My wife calls my name a few times before coming into the pantry with a bang.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asks. "I've been looking everywhere." She notices the pastry in my hand and her expression darkens. "I knew it! You squirrel away food and expect the rest of us to live on the hard stale food no one will buy!"

Pushing me aside, she steps onto the stool and grabs the strudel, looking at it in disgust. "What is this? she glares at me. "I'll get one of the boys to feed it to the pig."

I want to say something, tell her to just let it be, but I've never been good at standing up to people.

Peeta begins to cry as he looks at his pastry being mangled in his mother's hands. All his diligent work will be stepped on by the disgusting animal out back.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" She gives him a seething look and turns to go.

"Wait." It comes out barely above a whisper.

She turns on me, a snarl already on her face.

"That's Peeta's. He made it."

"Peeta made this?" she scoffs. "That's why it looks like it was plucked from the garbage. Don't you understand that we don't have the money for him to waste ingredients? It's your job to keep him in line. If his grimy hands touched it, no person in their right mind will buy it - not even the filthy Seam customers. I doubt the pigs will even touch it." She wrinkles her nose and shoves the pastry at me. I cradle the squashed little thing and kneel down beside Peeta.

"Here, son."

He studies it, turning it over in his hand. "It's broken," he whimpers.

"But I can fix it," I assure him. "It's what I do. That's the great thing about building with bread and dough - you can always reshape it." I take his hand and lead him back into the kitchen. Using a little butter and many years of practice, I'm able to press it back into a more appetizing shape.

"There. Good as new."

Peeta, who's eyes are still red, looks at the pastry. "Thank you, Daddy." He carefully takes the pastry, then reaches up for my hand.

As I tuck him into bed that night, Peeta asks me a question.

"Can you teach me the valley song?"

"The - the what?"

"The valley song," he repeats, folding his little hands over the blankets.

"I'm - I'm sorry, Peeta, but I don't know that song. And anyway, I can't sing." Whistling is about as close as I get to making music.

He looks disappointed for a moment. "Oh. She can."

I don't need to ask who he means. "So could her father. Did she sing for you today?"

Peeta nods his head. "Uh huh. And you were right. The birds were listening."

I smile, thinking that little Katniss Everdeen had a very special gene pool. As my son lies down, I pull the blanket up to his chin. He has one thing left to say before I leave.

"I think I love her." Then, his eyes close and he's asleep.