The warmth of the bread lingers on my fingertips as I take another slow bite, savouring the quiet. Peeta sits across from me, absentmindedly tracing patterns into the worn wood of the table, his own piece of bread half-eaten, probably imagining the focus of his next painting. They usually include me or the meadow. The early morning light filters through the window, casting soft golden streaks over the kitchen - every natural shade of orange never fails to relax me. The silence between us isn't heavy—it never is—but it shifts as we hear soft footsteps on the stairs.

Willow appears first, her dark hair still mussed from sleep, though her sharp eyes are already alert, already assessing. She's always been this way—watching, calculating, noticing things Peeta and I wish she wouldn't. It's my fault for passing on pieces of myself. Pieces I once vowed to never share with the next generation. "You made bread," she mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, as she slides into her usual chair.

"Of course I did," Peeta says, passing her a piece before she can ask. She takes it, rips off a bite with her teeth, and chews thoughtfully. Her eyes flick to me, scanning my face, but she doesn't ask whatever question is lingering in her mind. This must be what it was like to be in my presence when I was of her age. The stairs creak again, and Rye follows, rubbing his eyes with a small fist. He moves more sluggishly than Willow, more hesitant, but as soon as he sees the bread, he brightens. "Morning," he mumbles, padding to the table and taking his seat beside Peeta.

Peeta ruffles his hair, handing him a slice as well. "Morning, buddy. Sleep okay?"

Rye nods, though he doesn't look at us when he answers. It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. He has nightmares, like I do. Sometimes, I wake to the sound of him whimpering in his sleep and I wonder if it's something buried deep in his blood—some inherited fear, a shadow of all the things I've seen. Putting my paranoia aside, I know his mind imagines at night what any five year old's does, monsters under their bed or not being able to find their parents. But I don't ask. Instead, I watch as he nibbles on his bread, content for now, and focus on the normalcy of this morning. The soft sounds of chewing. The scrape of Peeta's fingers on the wood. The occasional clink of our cups against the table.

Outside, District 12 stirs awake. It's not the same district we grew up in. The Seam is still here, but it's not filled with the same desperation it once was. There are no Peacekeepers patrolling the streets, no looming threat of the mines taking the ones we love. The district is quieter now, slower. The people who survived the war rebuilt what they could, and the new government—whatever that is now truly defined as—has kept its promise so far. Each district is still responsible for its trade, but without the Capitol's control, things are more lenient. We keep more of what we produce, and we produce what we choose.

Peeta and I stayed in District 12 - it's home after all. Peeta continues to bake, however. He's much higher regarded as a man who provides mouth-watering treats than a man who mines coal. Gale moved to 2 after the uprising sparked his interest for the military. I guess all those hours in the mines crammed between his 18th birthday and the bombing of 12 were enough for him to decide it's no place for him. It's still the second home of most of the middle-aged men from 12 who fled to 13 though, and Panem still needs coal. Besides, the safety measures are far greater now. I guess the main difference in 12 is no one starves here anymore. Or anywhere. Everything is fair and divided. Everyone has access to resources and healthcare. Everyone matters.

I do what I can. I still hunt when we need it, though I don't stray as far anymore. I take care of the house, of the children. I keep moving, keep breathing, keep waking up every morning and coming downstairs to sit at this table with the people I love. It's not always easy, but it's home.

I glance at Willow as she tugs her bread apart piece by piece, lost in thought. "Plans today?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Probably going to the square later. See if Thom needs help." Thom runs a small forge in what used to be the Hob. He doesn't make weapons, not anymore—just tools, nails, things people actually need. Willow likes watching him work, sometimes helping when he lets her.

"Just stay close," Peeta says gently. "Be home before dark."

The same protective Peeta from the Games. She rolls her eyes but nods, stuffing another piece of bread in her mouth. Rye, meanwhile, stays quiet, swinging his legs under the table as he eats. I reach out and brush my fingers over his curls, and he finally looks up at me, offering a small smile. Peeta radiates through his expression. Piercing eyes, kind dimples. The day will continue as days do. Willow will disappear to Thom's, maybe wander the district with a few of the other kids her age. Rye will stay closer to home, playing in the field or helping Peeta in the bakery (also known as our kitchen). And I—I'll find something to keep my hands busy. Gathering, hunting, preparing our evening meal. It's not the life I imagined for myself when I was sixteen and it's not the life I thought I'd deserve, but I'm grateful.

Rye has occupied himself with some toys Sabel kindly carved for him at her workshop near Thom's and the house is quiet again once the door swings shut behind Willow. Even now, my instincts make me want to call her back, to keep them both close, where I can see them. But I force myself to stay still, pressing my palm flat against the grain of the table. They're safe. The world is different now, we made sure of it. I press my temple to alleviate the pressure that still builds there when I'm stressed, after Johanna struck me.

Peeta watches me, setting down his mug with a quiet clink. "You're thinking too hard."

I sigh. "It's strange, isn't it? Letting them go out on their own. No one watching, no one following orders." I hesitate. "No one hunting."

Peeta's jaw tightens slightly, just for a second, but then he softens. "I know. But they need to know what freedom feels like. They should know the world as something bigger than fear."

I nod, tracing circles against the wood with my fingertips. "It's still hard."

He reaches for my hand, warm and steady as he threads his fingers through mine. "We can't keep them caged, Katniss. That's not what we fought for."

I swallow. The past still creeps in, even in the quietest moments. I feel it in the silence after a nightmare, in the ghost of Rue's song carried by the wind. I glance at Peeta, at the way his shoulders are relaxed in a way they never used to be, how he's slowly finding pieces of himself again, just like I am. I don't know if I'll ever fully believe in the peace we've been given, but Peeta does, and I believe in him.

I squeeze his hand. "I just wish I knew how to do this."

Peeta gives me a small, lopsided smile. "You do."

So, for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe it. Today will be 'normal'.