The air in District 12 will always smells like coal and earth, but in the mornings, when the mist clings to the ground, there's something else—something clean, almost new. The aromas of wildflowers and grass have started to intertwine with the old stench of the mines, now that such life is allowed to grow freely. Now that our lives are allowed to grow freely.
I stand barefoot in the fields behind our house, the grass damp and cool beneath my toes because of the dew the morning has just brought it. The meadow is slowly reclaiming what the war took. Poppies push up through the blackened soil, defying the ash that once covered everything. Buttercups and daisies dance in the sunlight, unafraid of overhead threats that once promised their extinction. Life insists on coming back, no matter how much I resist it. No matter how much the Capitol resisted it.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of the door. I don't have to turn to know it's Peeta. His footsteps are lighter than they used to be, careful, like he's always measuring his movements. I suppose we both do that now. We have been weathered to protect one another through all of life's mysteries, even by the careful silence of our feet. Peeta obviously took longer to adjust than I did. Even before the consequences of the 74th Games, Peeta didn't possess the gift of surprise.
"I thought I'd find you out here," he says.
I nod but don't answer. I don't know what to say, and Peeta doesn't push. He never does. Instead, he steps beside me, hands tucked in the pockets of his pants, and looks out at the field the way I do—like we're both waiting for something. Waiting for the other to fill in the gaps of this morning's thoughts.
"It's different now," he says after a while. "Quieter."
He's right. Even the mockingjays, the ones that once carried Rue's song and the rebels' signals, seem softer now. Less urgent. Just birds again, mingling like birds should. It's both relieving and painstaking. Not hearing the birdsong that reminds us of our darkest times, but still seeing Rue in the wildflowers that once populated the arena. Still seeing Prim in the kind, gentle wildlife.
"I don't know how to live like this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Peeta exhales slowly. "We'll figure it out."
We. The word still feels foreign sometimes. After everything, after the uprising and rebellion, after brainwashing and hijacking and loss, there's still awe. There always has been. It just took me longer to realise it than it did Peeta.
I turn to him. The early morning light touches his face, catching on every gold strand of his hair, the steady blue of his eyes. For a long time, I was afraid to meet that gaze. Afraid of what I'd see there. But Peeta has been patient. Careful. Rebuilding himself in a way I don't know how to. I find love in his stare - a home - the same way he had always looked at me before the events in the Capitol. I see the ocean, the saltwater in the Quell - and therefore, I see Finnick.
"Come inside?" he asks gently.
I hesitate whilst I shake the final images I have of Finnick from my mind, but then I nod. I let him lead me back through the door, into the quiet of the house we're making into a home. The kitchen smells like fresh bread. I don't ask how early he must have gotten up to bake it. We sit at the small wooden table, in our seats that have now become tradition. It's nice having some stability, even if it is in the form of two old chairs that are contradictorily rickety. I take a piece of the bread he offers, breaking it apart with my fingers but not eating it right away. It's warm, soft. I stare at it for a moment, letting the heat envelop my fingers, before taking a small bite. It's good. Peeta's bread always is. You can practically feel the love and care that went into it, even in his plainest loaves.
For the first time in my life, I don't feel the weight of expectation—the need to fight, to survive, to be the symbol of something greater than myself. I only feel love and belonging. But it doesn't mean I'm used to it. It doesn't mean that I can fathom how to live such a life. Peeta and I have been working on this 'life' thing. How to get up each day and be grateful for what we have and what we have gained, all whilst attempting not to dwell on all that we have lost. All that we have endured.
As it has always been, Peeta is a better person than myself. He soldiers through every blip, every reminder, every family member and friend who he lost. Even the parts of himself that he lost at the hands of Snow and the Capitol. Still it remains that his main priority is me. He cares for me, cradles me when I cry, braids my hair when I am not willing. The only difference is, his warm embrace is now guaranteed when I have my nightly terrors. I don't have to ask, or even feel embarrassed to crave Peeta's touch anymore. It has always calmed me, and I am comfortable in openly wanting peace.
Though I don't know that I'll ever truly heal. If the nightmares will ever stop. If the guilt will ever fade. If Prim's cries, once echoed from mockingjay's, will ever leave my mind. I don't know if someone calling my name will ever not sound like Finnick's last words. But for now, I chew the bread Peeta made, in the house we share, in a district that's trying to grow again. And I think, maybe, this is how we start.