Archive of Our Own

The train hums steadily at the District 12 station, its whistle slicing clean through the morning air like a signal that our chosen life is about to pull forward again. The platform pulses with a vitality it never held when I was a girl. No coal dust hangs thick in the lungs or coats every surface; instead, sunlight glints off pale, clean stone, and bright flower boxes spill color from the station entrance.

Families from every corner of Panem move through the space now—laughing, hugging goodbye, wheeling suitcases, calling out to one another as they file toward the open carriage doors. The air tastes lighter, carrying only the faint scent of spring blooms and warm bread drifting from the bakery down the street.

I tighten my grip on Emmer, his small body warm and constantly wriggling against my hip as the crowd thickens around us. My free hand reaches for Peeta without thought, fingers finding his. My eyes seek him out at once, and the knot in my chest loosens when I see Willow’s small hand curled tight in his. Her dark braids swing with each bounce on her toes, bright blue eyes wide as she takes in the swirl of travelers.

“You okay?” Peeta asks, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles over my knuckles.

I nod, but the truth sits heavy in my stomach like a stone. The last time we stepped onto a train together, we were heading straight into the Quarter Quell—straight into hell. Now we board because we chose to. Because we can. Twenty years of peace have rewritten everything, yet some parts of me still wait for the floor to drop out. Motherhood changed the math on fear; every beat of my heart now carries two smaller echoes inside it.

I keep our children far from anything that smells like the Games or the war. They don’t need those shadows yet—not while they’re still small enough to believe the world is only train rides and bakery mornings and stories about districts full of fish and colorful fabrics.

“Yeah,” I say, softer than I mean to. “Just nervous.”

He leans in, lips brushing my cheek with familiar warmth. “Me too.”

The quiet admission loosens something tight in my ribs. Hearing him say it out loud makes the nerves feel normal instead of broken.

Emmer kicks his little legs against my side, full of the restless energy he seems to have borrowed straight from me. He’s only been steady on his feet for six months, but stillness has never suited him. I shift him higher and press a kiss to his ashy-blonde curls, breathing in the sweet, milky baby smell that still clings to him at eighteen months. He tilts his head back, grey eyes sparkling like light on water, and flashes a grin so much like his father’s that my heart stutters hard against my ribs.

Willow tugs Peeta toward the conductor standing ready beside the carriage steps. She beams up at the middle-aged woman with that easy, generous smile she gives so freely as Peeta hands over our boarding passes.

The conductor checks each one, then smiles down at her. “A family trip for you, little lady?”

“Uh-huh!” Willow announces, her voice ringing clear over the platform noise. “We’re going all the way to District Four to see my family! This is my very first train ride ever, and Daddy promised we’ll stop in District Three first, then District Seven to visit Aunt Johanna before we even get there. She says the trees are taller than the train, and she’s finally going to show me how to use a slingshot!”

The woman laughs, warm and genuine. “Well, that sounds like the best adventure I’ve heard all week. I hope you enjoy every single mile of it, sweetheart.”

She glances at Peeta and me as she hands the passes back, eyes softening. “You’ve got a beautiful family. Safe travels.”

The compliment lands soft and bright in my chest. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

Peeta chuckles, low and fond. “We’d better get moving before our little ambassador talks the whole train into delaying its schedule.” His hands settle gently on Willow’s shoulders as he guides her toward the open doors. I fall into step beside them, Emmer warm and solid against my hip, the three of us moving forward together as we step onto the train.

As we step inside the carriage, the corridor smells of fresh wood polish mingled with the faint, different perfumes of other passengers. Willow walks ahead with Peeta, still gripping his hand, then spins back with that curious tilt to her head that’s all her father.

“Daddy, what does ‘delay’ mean? Why would I delay the train?”

Peeta’s voice stays patient, the same gentle tone he uses when he explains why bread needs to rest or why the moon follows us home. “It means making something happen later than it’s supposed to. Like if you keep chatting with the nice lady while she’s trying to check everyone else’s tickets, the train might leave a few minutes late.”

Willow’s eyes go wide with understanding. “Oh. So… we delay a lot at the bakery, don’t we?”

I can’t help the snort that escapes. It’s true. Between Peeta’s endless stories for customers and Willow’s dramatic retellings of whatever dream she had the night before, we’re lucky to flip the closed sign before the streetlamps flicker on.

“Like father, like daughter,” I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.

Peeta glances over his shoulder, that crooked smirk I’ve loved for half my life sliding into place. “She may get the talking from me, but she got her stunning looks from her beautiful Mommy.” He winks, and heat floods my cheeks the way it still does after all these years.

Damn him for knowing exactly what that does to me.

Our compartment door slides open and shut with a soft hiss once we find the number on our boarding passes. I walk over and settle Emmer on the wide seat by the window while Willow presses her nose to the glass, gazing at the woods of District 12 as we wait for the train to start moving.

The two of them are the perfect map of us—Willow with my long dark hair and Peeta’s bright blue eyes, those curls that bounce when she laughs; Emmer with Peeta’s ashy-blonde hair and my gray eyes, the same wild curls framing his round cheeks. They carry pieces of us both, stitched together in the safest way possible.

I watch Peeta begin setting our bags around the compartment, placing Willow’s pink bag on the single bed while setting mine and his on the bigger one. Willow slides off her seat to scurry over to where Peeta is unpacking her stuffed toy goose—the one Haymitch made for her that she carries everywhere—along with the other little things she’s packed for the trip.

She talks nonstop, asking a million questions about the train, about the districts we’ll be seeing, and Peeta answers every one in stride with that patient smile he seems to reserve just for our children. Seeing him like this—patient, steady, utterly himself with Willow—still catches me in the chest sometimes. Twenty years it took me to get here, but every single year was worth it. He was ready the moment Willow’s heartbeat first showed on the monitor. I… took longer.

My mind slips back, the way it sometimes does when I find a moment of quiet.

Pregnancy with Willow had been brutal. Every kick felt alien and uncontrollable. Night after night I lay awake as old nightmares clawed up from the dark—arenas, mutts, the smell of blood. I kept picturing our baby forced into the Games, the Capitol watching and betting on whether the child of the Star-Crossed Lovers would survive till the end. Those thoughts stole every moment of peace and followed me into dreams so bad that both Peeta and I suffered from lack of sleep. I’d wake screaming, and only his arms could truly comfort me.

I felt horrible seeing the dark circles under his eyes, but Peeta never once complained. I used the strategies Dr. Aurelius taught me—creating a happy place in my mind before sleep or lying together and trading happy memories from our childhoods or the ones we’d made since. It didn’t get rid of the nightmares entirely, but we managed most nights with something close to peaceful, dreamless sleep.

The first real stirring of her inside me felt so incomprehensible, so alien, so terrifying that one night I shattered. I sobbed into Peeta’s chest, convinced I was already the worst mother alive because I couldn’t feel that instant, glowing love everyone talked about. This child had been made in the brightest, safest love we’d ever known, and I still felt mostly fear.

Peeta had held me through every doubt, whispering that the love would come, that I was already doing it right just by being afraid for her. I didn’t believe him. Not until the night she was born.

The labor stretched on for hours—pain like fire, like every injury I’d ever carried coming back at once. Then came the final push, and suddenly there she was. A furious, red-faced cry bounced off our bedroom walls as the doctor laid her on my chest, warm and slippery and alive. Her tiny fists waved, legs kicking like she was still fighting to stay inside me where it was safe.

Her skin against mine, her heartbeat thundering right over my heart… something inside me cracked wide open. Love crashed through me so fierce and sudden that I started crying with her, great heaving sobs of relief. I could love her. I was going to be her mother after all.

Peeta wrapped his arms around both of us, tears tracking down his cheeks, voice rough as he kept repeating “thank you” against my hair—thank you for giving him this, for letting him be a father, for making our broken world whole again in one tiny, perfect person.

Emmer had been easier to carry, but not by much. I still had all those same feelings, the same nightmares, the fear and guilt about being a good enough mother, though not as intense as with Willow. I still found pregnancy hard and painful on some days, both physically and mentally. But I had Willow this time. She was living proof that there was an end in sight. That I just had to be strong enough to carry the baby to term.

With a four-year-old a few months from turning five, it was easier to distract myself from the constant fears and doubts that used to gnaw at my thoughts. Between preparing her to start school the following year, helping Peeta at the bakery on the busy days when he needed me to man the front counter so he could help his bakers in the kitchen, and spending the other days with Willow at home keeping her distracted until he came home, I barely had time to let those thoughts take hold. Before I knew it, I was giving birth once again.

Once Emmer was born, I felt something in our life click into place. Like he was the final piece of a puzzle I was trying so hard to complete. Willow adored him from the very first moment, and Peeta and I were fully content with Emmer joining our family. The past eighteen months of Emmer being in our life have been some of the brightest and happiest days of my life. I got to see Willow embrace the role of older sister with fierce pride. I got to walk in on Peeta lying in our bed with newborn Emmer scrunched up safely on his chest, both of them fast asleep. I got to hear Emmer’s first laugh—the one Willow pulled out of him while playing a silly baby game.

If I had to go through those pregnancies again, relive every bit of trauma from my past resurfacing to haunt me, I would do it all in a heartbeat if it meant I got this outcome.

The train whistle blows once more, softer now, and I blink back to the present. Emmer plays with the end of my braid with a tiny hand, Willow runs back to the window seat with us, pulling Peeta along by his hand, and starts pointing out cloud shapes drifting past. Peeta is watching me with that quiet, knowing smile. The world outside the window is green and open and free. I pull both my children closer, breathing in their natural scent that reminds me of home.

The shadows are still there, somewhere far behind us. But right now, on this train we chose to ride, they don’t touch us. Not today.

Once the train glides forward, it moves so smoothly I almost forget we’re racing along the tracks at all—just a low, steady hum vibrating beneath the floor. The rebuilt Panem countryside slips past the window in soft greens and golds. Forests that were once scorched have grown back thick and wild since the war, and fields now ripple with fresh grass and wildflowers where burnt patches from the bombing after the Second Quarter Quell used to scar the earth. No more black dust clouds choking the air. No empty seams where coal once ruled everything.

Just open sky and the quiet promise that we’re allowed to go somewhere because we want to, not because we’re being sent.

We have three hours until our first fuel stop in District 3, so we settle into our compartment like it’s a tiny home on wheels. I double-check the lock on the sliding door—a habit I can’t quite shake—then set Emmer down on the thick carpeted floor. He immediately toddles off on those still-wobbly legs, arms stretched out for balance, giggling at the gentle sway beneath his feet. Peeta and I move around each other in the small space, putting away the things he started unpacking from our bags, creating little pockets of order in our rolling home.

Willow climbs onto her bed and starts jumping the second her shoes hit the mattress, dark braids flying every time she’s airborne, laughter bubbling out after each bounce. Emmer spots her and makes a determined beeline, smacking the edge of the bed with both palms and letting out an outraged squeal when his short legs won’t let him climb up. His little face scrunches in frustration.

"Maybe don’t jump on the bed, Willow,” I say gently. “I don’t want Emmer trying to copy you and bumping his head.

She drops straight down, sitting cross-legged with that instant obedience she’s had since she was a baby—the kind that still catches me pleasantly off guard every time. “Okay, Mommy.” Her smile is so bright and trusting it melts something inside me. She’s got so much of Peeta in her—his easy kindness, the way she wants to make everyone around her happy.

She tilts her head, suddenly serious. “Do you think Grandma and Aunt Annie will like me?”

I cross the small space and sit on the edge of her bed, scooping a now-whining Emmer into my lap before he can work himself into a full tantrum. “Of course they will. Why wouldn’t they?”

Willow shrugs, picking at the hem of her dress. “I don’t know… they never come visit us.”

I glance at Peeta. The look I give him is heavy with everything I can’t say out loud—not yet, not while she’s still small enough to believe the world is only good. He reads it perfectly, the way he always has, and walks over to settle on the other side of her, one arm resting lightly behind her back.

"Well,” he starts, voice warm and steady, “the short answer is that it makes Grandma really sad to come back to District Twelve sometimes. And Aunt Annie has Flynn. It’s hard for her to leave District Four because… Flynn’s daddy isn’t here anymore.

Willow’s eyes go wide. “Gone? Where did he go?”

Peeta brushes a stray hair that escaped from one of her braids behind her ear. “To a place where he isn’t in any pain anymore. A place we can’t reach yet, but it’s safe and peaceful.

“Like in ‘The Old Therebefore’?” Willow asks, looking between us. “The sweet old hereafter?”

I feel my throat tighten. That song slips out of me every year on the anniversary, when we sit together by the little stone marker we made for Prim in the backyard of our Victor’s Village house—the one Peeta and I fixed up and filled with light after we got married. My father used to sing it too, long ago, on the anniversary of his distant cousin’s death. He spoke of Lenore Dove with such quiet fondness, like she was someone I would have loved sitting beside on the porch steps.

Only a few years ago did I learn the full truth—that she was Haymitch’s sweetheart once, back when he was young and the arena hadn’t carved him hollow. He never told us much more, never how she died, just that he loved her enough to keep the promise she made him: to stop the sun from rising on another Reaping. He’d looked at me when he said it, eyes tired but certain, and added that it was ironic—because in the end, her real relative had been the one to keep that promise for good.

“Yes, exactly like that,” Peeta says, smiling as he tucks the hair again.

Willow turns to me. “And… he’s with Aunt Prim too? Will he look after her?”

The question lands soft but sure. I lean forward and kiss her forehead. “He will. They’ll look after each other. And both of them would have loved you so much, little bird. That’s why I know, without any doubt at all, that Grandma and Aunt Annie are going to love you too.”

“But why did they have to leave?” Her small frown is so earnest it aches.

Peeta pulls her gently into his lap, letting her curl against his chest the way she’s done since she was a new baby. “That’s a little hard to explain right now, and you won’t really understand until you’re a bit older. What matters most—what will always matter most—is that they would have loved you if they were still here. And right now, the people who are here love you and Emmer more than anything in the whole world. Okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.” She sighs, content, and rests her cheek right over his heart like she can hear the steady beat telling her everything is safe.

I mouth “thank you” across the small space. Peeta’s eyes soften, and he mouths back, “Always,” the same word he’s given me since the first time I asked him to stay with me all those years ago. I take his free hand and press it to my cheek, letting the warmth of his palm chase away the old shadows that still try to creep in sometimes.

Our life isn’t perfect. The scars run deep—nightmares that still wake me reaching for a bow I no longer need, the way my heart sometimes races when a child crying in town sounds too much like a tribute being reaped, the constant quiet vigilance that comes with loving something this fiercely. But every single scar helped shape the people we are now. Our love has grown stronger with every year, every loaf of bread baked side by side, every bedtime story whispered in the dark, every moment we choose each other again.

Peeta is the only person in this world I could have built this life with—the laughter, the fear, the endless, ordinary beauty of it all. And even on the hardest days, that truth makes every terrible thing we survived feel worth it. Because it brought us here: to this quiet compartment humming along the tracks, to our children’s steady breathing, to a future we get to walk into together, hand in hand, with the sun rising on our own terms.

Once we’re properly settled and the train has settled into its smooth, whispering rhythm, the four of us venture out of our little compartment to see what this new Panem has made of its rails. The corridors feel wider than I remember, the walls paneled in warm, light wood instead of the cold, gleaming Capitol white.

Sunlight pours through tall, clean windows, catching on brass fixtures that no longer bear the Capitol seal but simple, carved leaves instead. No more velvet drapes heavy with gold thread, no more forced elegance meant to dazzle tributes on their way to die. Just practical beauty—comfortable, open, and ours.

We pass the dining car first. It still smells faintly of fresh bread and citrus, but the long single table is gone. In its place, cozy booths line the windows so families can watch the moving view roll by together, and smaller round tables dot the open floor. Attendants in soft gray uniforms push gleaming carts piled with sandwiches layered thick with cheese, cold meats, and greens, flaky pastries still warm from the oven, and tall glasses of chilled juice or steaming tea or coffee whose mingled scents drift through the air like an invitation.

We ate a proper breakfast back home before we left—Peeta’s cinnamon rolls and fresh milk—so we only smile at the carts and keep walking, letting the warm, yeasty scent follow us down the corridor.

Another automatic door sighs open at the end of the next hallway, and we step into the entertainment car. The space is bright and alive in a way the old Capitol cars never were. A large screen on one wall plays colorful cartoons from the new studios in the Capitol—silly animals chasing each other across meadows that look suspiciously like the ones slipping past our window.

Most of the children, though, have abandoned the screen for the low tables scattered with crayons and paper, or the soft rug where wooden blocks, bright balls, and stuffed animals wait in colorful heaps. Parents sit cross-legged on the floor or in the wide armchairs along the walls, sipping from mugs, their voices low and easy like they’ve done this a hundred times before. The whole car hums with ordinary, unhurried family life—the kind that still feels like a small miracle.

“Can we stay here for a little while, please?” Willow asks, her blue eyes sparkling bright. She’s already tugging gently at Peeta’s hand, practically vibrating with excitement.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Of course we can.”

She lets out the happiest squeal I’ve ever heard and drags Peeta straight toward the art table, her braids swinging like dark pendulums. I watch them go, warmth blooming in my chest at how quickly she spotted the crayons—always the artist, just like her father.

Emmer squirms on my hip, little legs kicking with purpose. I set him down carefully on the thick carpet and he toddles off immediately, arms out for balance, eyes wide and serious as he surveys the room. He makes a beeline for a small cluster of toddlers about his age, plops down right in the middle of their circle, and sticks his two favorite fingers into his mouth. Even at eighteen months, that look of quiet suspicion is pure me.

It makes me proud, the way he watches and waits before deciding who’s safe. Haymitch has been crowing about it since Emmer was five months old, claiming I “trained the kid to despise him since birth.” Every time Haymitch tries to pick him up, Emmer stares like he’s sizing up a potential threat, then wails until he’s back in my arms. I just shrug and tell Haymitch it’s a healthy sense of caution around someone as loud and insufferable as he is.

Deep down, though, it makes me proud—my boy already knows how to read a room. At least that’s what I tell myself when Haymitch calls him clingy. I tend to ignore the comment because he never had to carry Emmer in his body or go through hours of birth to bring him into the world. That argument always makes Haymitch roll his eyes, but it shuts him up quickly enough.

I sink down onto the floor beside Emmer, crossing my legs so he can crawl straight into my lap if he wants. He does, almost immediately, leaning back against my chest with his fingers still in his mouth, content for now to observe the other children stacking blocks and rolling balls. I don’t push him. He’ll join when he’s ready; he always does.

Sure enough, a tiny girl with curly red hair wobbles over on unsteady legs. She stops right in front of Emmer and thrusts a bright blue wooden block toward him like an offering. Emmer eyes it for a long moment, then reaches out with his free hand and takes it. The girl babbles something delighted and plops down beside us, already stacking her own tower with fierce concentration.

Emmer glances up at me, those gray eyes asking a silent question. I smile and kiss the top of his soft curls, breathing in the sweet baby smell that still clings to him. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “Mama’s right here. You can play if you want.”

That seems to be all the motivation he needs. He pushes up onto his feet, takes the two careful steps to the girl, and carefully places his block on top of her tower. It wobbles, topples, and both toddlers burst into giggles that fill the whole car like birdsong. Within seconds they’re knocking the tower down on purpose, shrieking with laughter every time the blocks scatter.

I glance over my shoulder and have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Peeta is folded into one of the tiny wooden chairs clearly built for much smaller bodies, his long legs bent at awkward angles and his broad shoulders hunched forward so he doesn’t knock anything over. It should look ridiculous. Instead, every child at the table has crowded in close, leaning over his arms and pointing at the blank sheet of paper he’s claimed from the center of the table, voices rising in a chorus of requests.

He doesn’t rush them. He never does. With steady hands and the same patient focus he brings to everything that matters, he listens to each child and begins to draw. Quick, sure strokes of colored pencil bring their ideas to life—here a bright yellow bird mid-flight, there a lopsided but recognizable train, its windows filled with tiny waving figures. The children gasp and press closer with every new detail that appears.

Willow has climbed straight into his lap without asking, settling back against his chest like she belongs there. Peeta rests his chin lightly on the top of her dark head, murmuring soft explanations about how the light falls across the bird’s wing as he shades it. She listens with the kind of rapt attention she usually reserves for stories, one small hand curled around his wrist as if to keep him exactly where he is.

I know that feeling. After the war, there was a stretch of months where I couldn’t stand to have him out of my sight. I needed the solid warmth of him beside me just to breathe right, needed to know he was real and here and not another thing the Capitol had taken. Dr. Aurelius helped me untangle that knot, piece by careful piece. It was hard work—some days it still is—but I learned how to stand on my own feet without needing his hand in mine every second. I had to, if I wanted to give us both something real instead of just two broken people clinging to each other.

Willow hasn’t learned that yet. She’s still small enough that the world narrows to whatever she loves most, and right now that’s her father. When another little boy leans in too close and asks Peeta to draw a dragon next.

Willow turns her head just enough to fix him with a look and says, very clearly, “My daddy’s drawing for me right now.” She puts extra weight on the my, the way she does when she’s staking her claim. The boy blinks, then shrugs and waits his turn anyway.

Peeta mumbles in her ear, probably something about her manners and to be kind, though, Willow stays exactly where she is, tucked under Peeta’s chin like she’s won something important.

The sight of them together loosens something deep in my chest. His hands move with that familiar certainty, her dark braids brushing his forearm every time she shifts to watch the paper. The gentle sway of the train rocks them both in the same rhythm, and for a moment the whole noisy car seems to fade around the small, ordinary miracle of it. I still don’t know how we got here—how we earned this pocket of peace after everything—but I feel it anyway, warm and steady, like the sunlight sliding across the floorboards.

The little red-haired girl’s mother eventually comes over and lowers herself onto the carpet across from me, close enough that our knees nearly touch. She smiles, open and easy. “Looks like my Cora’s made a friend.”

“So it seems,” I answer, returning the smile even as that old reflex to pull back flickers for half a second. I’m still not used to strangers walking straight up to me like this, their faces bright with recognition. Katniss Everdeen. The Mockingjay. The girl who ended the Games.

That version of me feels like someone I read about once in a book I never finished. These days I’m Katniss Mellark—wife, mother, the woman who counts out change at the bakery counter and sings the same three lullabies every night until small bodies go heavy and still in my arms. This life still feels borrowed sometimes, like it was meant for someone braver or softer than I ever learned how to be.

The woman watches her daughter stack another block on the wobbling tower. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she says, voice low so it doesn’t carry. “Raising them in a world that isn’t trying to eat them alive.”

“Yeah,” I manage. The word comes out lighter than I feel. “Very nice.”

I don’t entirely believe it, but I don’t correct her. There are still shadows. Peeta and I keep the television off most nights—Willow and Emmer would rather chase each other through the meadow or wade in the lake anyway—but when we do catch the news, the stories are never as clean as the headlines claim. Old loyalists, quiet resentments, people hurting each other in ways that have nothing to do with arenas or reapings. I remember too well how fast a few sparks can turn into a wildfire. Peeta always says the rest of Panem chose peace. Most days I let myself believe him.

My eyes drift to Emmer, still pressed against my chest with two fingers in his mouth, watching the blocks with solemn concentration. I think about the children’s home back in Twelve—the one that takes in the kids whose parents couldn’t or wouldn’t keep them. It’s better now than it was when I was a girl. Cleaner. The caregivers actually seem to care. But it’s still full.

Peeta sends bread and pastries over every week, sometimes twice, and refuses payment every single time. He says he remembers what it felt like to go to bed hungry. I watch him do it and fall in love with him all over again, quietly, the way I do most days.

The woman seems to read something in my face. She doesn’t push. Instead she shifts her attention back to the children and lets the silence settle between us, comfortable and undemanding. I’m grateful. I’m still wary of strangers, still fiercely protective of the small, ordinary details of our life. I’m not ashamed of it.

These pieces of us—Emmer’s warm weight against me right now, the sound of Willow’s giggle when Peeta pretends to eat her fingers, the way Peeta’s hand finds the small of my back without thinking—they’re the only things I ever truly got to choose for myself. After years of having every private moment picked apart and broadcast for the whole country to consume, I guard what’s left like it’s the last food in the house.

No one else needs to know how Emmer still reaches for me in the dark before dawn, or the exact pitch of Willow’s shriek when Peeta chases her around the kitchen table. No one gets to keep the way Peeta kisses me like we’re still twenty and the world hasn’t ended yet. Those things are mine. Ours. And I will fight to keep them that way for as long as I have breath in my body.

The train rocks gently beneath us, a low steady hum that vibrates up through the carpet. I rest my cheek against Emmer’s soft curls, feel the warmth of him seep into my skin, and listen to the bright scatter of children’s laughter filling the spaces where old fears used to live.

/

We linger in the entertainment car until the cartoons start to blur together and the drawing no longer holds Willow’s interest. She slides off Peeta’s lap with a dramatic little sigh and walks over to lean her full weight against my side, one hand pressed to her stomach like she’s delivering tragic news.

“Mommy,” she announces, voice low and serious, “my tummy is making the loudest noises. I think it’s really mad at me.”

The words land soft but sharp. I know she’s only talking about the ordinary emptiness that comes from a long morning of play and no snack, but my body still remembers what real hunger felt like—the kind that lived in my bones when I was her age, the kind that turned a single loaf of bread into something that felt like mercy. I never want her to know that particular ache. Not for one second.

I scoop Emmer up without thinking, settling his warm, solid weight on my hip where he always seems to fit best, and reach for Willow’s hand. “Come on then. Let’s go find something to make peace with that angry tummy of yours.”

Peeta falls into step behind us, his palm settling at the small of my back like it belongs there. The touch is steady and warm, the same quiet anchor it’s been since the first time we walked these train corridors together under much darker circumstances. The low hum of the rails vibrates pleasantly through the floor as we move down the narrow hallway, the gentle sway rocking us forward.

We slide into a window booth in the dining car. The polished wood still carries the faint scent of fresh bread and citrus from earlier carts, and sunlight stripes the table in clean, bright lines. Willow claims the seat against the glass immediately, pressing her nose to it the second she’s settled.

Peeta slips in beside her, long legs folding neatly beneath the table, while I take the opposite side and set Emmer between me and the window. He pushes up onto his feet at once, chubby hands slapping the glass as he stares out at the rushing green, babbling softly to himself like he’s narrating the view.

Willow’s eyes go wide as the train rounds a wide curve and District 3 comes into full view. The old gray concrete I remember from the Victory Tour is gone, replaced by sleek silver buildings that catch the light like mirrors. No more smokestacks belching black into the sky. Instead, solar panels line the rooftops in neat, shining rows, and clusters of tall glass towers rise with living green wrapped around their frames like the district itself decided to grow upward instead of outward.

“It looks so fancy!” Willow breathes, both hands splaying against the glass.

I smile at the pure wonder on her face, at the way her blue eyes catch the light. “Pretty cool, huh?”

She whips around so fast her braids swing. “So cool! Do you think they have elevators that go all the way to the clouds? And do the people up there ever get dizzy looking down?”

Peeta chuckles beside her, his arm draped along the back of the booth so his fingers can idly brush the top of her head. “I bet the height makes them go cross-eyed.” He demonstrates by crossing his own eyes at her, and Willow dissolves into giggles that make something in my chest loosen.

The attendant arrives with a friendly nod, wheeling over a gleaming cart stacked with neat triangles of sandwiches, golden pastries still steaming at the edges, and bowls of fresh fruit folded into creamy yogurt. Peeta, as expected, can’t help himself. He selects seven different pastries, arranging them across our plates with the focused care of a man who still believes good food can fix most things. I roll my eyes, already knowing what’s coming.

He takes a bite of the first one—some delicate, layered thing dusted with powdered sugar—and tilts his head like he’s delivering a verdict. “Is it pretentious of me to think mine are still better?”

I lean forward and steal a flaky corner from his plate, popping it into my mouth. The buttery layers crumble, but even I can taste how dry it is. I have to take a quick sip of tea to wash it down.

“No,” I say, coughing once. “It’s not pretentious.”

Peeta’s smirk appears instantly, the one that still manages to make my stomach flip after all these years.

“Because it’s true,” I add, keeping my voice low. “I still haven’t found a cheese bun anywhere in Panem that beats yours. Not even close.”

He raises an eyebrow and takes a slow sip of his plain black tea—no sugar, the same way he’s taken it since we were teenagers. “You always did like my buns more than me,” he sighs, the words wrapped in perfect theatrical disappointment as he sets the cup down.

I narrow my eyes at him across the table, fighting the smile already tugging at my mouth. “You were never this naughty before we got together. Clearly our relationship has brought out your worst side.”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” he murmurs, that wicked little smirk curving the corner of his mouth—the one that still sends heat curling low in my stomach even after everything we’ve been through.

My eyes widen. I kick him gently under the table and glance quickly at Willow, but she’s completely absorbed in her strawberry yogurt, humming happily with every spoonful, oblivious to her father being impossible. Emmer is still busy leaving sticky handprints on the window.

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, but the words come out soft and warm instead of scolding.

“Sure,” he says, grinning wider. “That’s why you had two children with me.”

I lean in just enough that only he can hear me. “Remind me again why I did that?”

“Because you enjoyed how we made them so much,” he answers, voice low and teasing, eyes sparkling as he winks. “You still treat it like we’re in the middle of it, my ravenous lover.”

“Peeta Mellark,” I warn, leaning closer across the table, “if you keep going, you won’t be getting that certain something for a very long time.”

He lifts both hands in immediate surrender, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Okay, okay—I yield. Let’s not resort to such cruel and unusual punishment.”

I shake my head, losing the battle against my own smile. “You really are a dirty boy.”

He just leans back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “And you love it.”

My cheeks flush hot despite myself, because he’s right. He knows exactly how to wrap the filthiest suggestion in that soft, teasing tone so it sounds almost innocent to anyone else. The boy the Capitol once painted as gentle and pure has always had this other side—playfully wicked—and I still get a secret thrill every time he lets it show. No one else sees this version of him. Not the reporters who still occasionally ask for interviews, not the neighbors in Victor’s Village, not even Haymitch.

This Peeta—the one who can make me blush with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a well-placed word—is the one I get to keep. The one who survived the arena and the war and still chose to build a life where we can tease each other over pastries on a train while our children watch the world roll by in safety.

Emmer chooses that moment to pat the window with both palms, leaving tiny sticky prints on the glass as he babbles at the passing fields. Willow giggles and offers him a spoonful of yogurt, which he accepts with happy, messy enthusiasm. Under the table, Peeta’s hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine the way they have since we were barely more than children ourselves.

For a little while the only hunger in our booth is the ordinary, happy kind that comes from growing bodies and full hearts. I squeeze Peeta’s hand once, twice, and let myself sink into the simple, impossible joy of it all.

The last bites of pastry have barely disappeared from our plates when the train begins its gentle, whispering slowdown. The low hum beneath our feet shifts into something softer, and District 3’s station slides into view through the wide windows. It’s nothing like the simple cement platform back home in Twelve—no weathered benches or plain stone station house.

This place gleams with sleek glass and polished steel, curved roofs that catch the sunlight and scatter soft rainbows across the platform. Holographic signs float above the tracks in gentle blues and greens, welcoming travelers in crisp, updating letters that shift as new trains arrive.

I wipe Emmer’s sticky fingers with a damp cloth while Peeta gathers our things from the compartment. We move with the quick, practiced rhythm parents learn when the world is finally safe enough to plan small detours. I slip the soft canvas bag over my shoulder—the one always packed with extra diapers, a change of clothes for Willow in case of spills, and the baby wrap my mother sent from Four after Emmer was born.

I settle him into it now, tucking the fabric snug around his small body until he’s secure against my chest, his warm weight familiar and grounding. He immediately tucks his head under my chin, content for the moment.

Peeta shoulders the heavier black bag—the one carrying snacks, the children’s water bottles, our shared large one, and the small first-aid kit we’ve never traveled without since Willow was born—then reaches for her hand. She slips her fingers into his without hesitation, already bouncing on her toes with excitement. We step off the train together, the slight gap between carriage and platform easy to cross, and onto the wide, sun-warmed platform.

“We’ve got a little over three hours before it leaves again,” Peeta says, checking the glowing departure board above us. His voice is calm and easy, the same steady tone he uses when he’s making sure everyone feels safe. “Plenty of time to stretch our legs and get some fresh air.”

Willow’s eyes are already huge, darting everywhere at once. Emmer, still snug in the wrap, cranes his head to stare up at the floating signs drifting lazily above the tracks.

“Ook!” he squeals, pointing a chubby finger at the scrolling letters.

“Cool, isn’t it, Emmer?” I murmur, smiling as I press a kiss to his soft curls. He echoes a garbled version of the word back at me, and I grin before following Peeta toward the main concourse, where tall information screens rise like shining pillars.

Travelers from every district move around us—families in the lightweight fabrics common in District 4, District 3 technicians in crisp white coats, even a few familiar faces from home who nod politely when they recognize us. No one stares the way they used to. No cameras flash. Just ordinary people living ordinary days in a place that has finally been allowed to become something new.

Peeta stops in front of one of the larger holographic screens, swiping through the glowing options with a finger. I watch his face—the way his brow furrows in concentration before smoothing into a surprised, pleased smile.

“Hey, look at this,” he says, swiping the display with two fingers so the screen turns slightly toward me.

I step closer and read the floating text:

Tour District 3’s Luxury Technology Factory Be guided through a never-before-seen tour of the creation process behind the technology you use in your homes and workplaces.

Tour Duration: 20 minutes

CEO: Vector Byte

Co-Owner: Beetee Latier

Below the words is a photograph of Beetee, older now in a way that makes my chest tighten for a moment. The deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth speak of twenty hard-won years. His beard and eyebrows have gone fully silver, neat and trimmed, and he leans lightly on a sleek black cane.

But those black-framed glasses are exactly the same—slightly crooked on one side, just as I remember. It feels strange seeing him like this. The last time our eyes met was on that chaotic day in the Capitol, the day I put an arrow through President Coin’s heart. He’d looked exhausted then, wires and fresh burns still marking him, but alive with the fierce certainty that we were doing the right thing. Now he looks… peaceful. Like the war finally let him rest.

Peeta’s hand finds the small of my back again, warm and steady. “We could pay him a little visit,” he suggests softly. “The tour ends right at the observation deck where the owners sometimes greet guests. Might be nice to say hello.”

I nod slowly, letting the idea settle. We were never close the way we are with Johanna or Annie—Beetee was always more of a quiet force in the background, wires and circuits and careful plans humming around him. But I’ve carried a deep, steady respect for him ever since the Quarter Quell. He kept his morals when so many others let theirs bend. He pushed for less violence even when violence was all we had left. His mind helped us crack the Capitol’s defenses and helped pull Peeta out of Snow’s torture chambers when his memories were shattered and bleeding. I will always owe him for that.

“Sure,” I say, the word coming out lighter than I expect. “Why not? The kids might like seeing how all those fancy gadgets are made.”

Peeta’s grin widens, the one that still crinkles the corners of his eyes in that boyish way. He laces his fingers through mine, and together we head toward the large double doors that lead out onto the sunlit streets of District 3.

The moment we step beyond the station’s covered awning, the scale of the city hits me like a soft wave. The skyscrapers rise so high they seem to brush the clouds, their glass and silver surfaces reflecting the sky in shifting shades of blue and green. Vines and flowering plants cascade down their sides in carefully tended vertical gardens, turning the whole skyline into something alive and breathing instead of cold metal and stone.

The streets are wide and clean, paved with smooth stone that radiates warmth up through our shoes. Cars glide past in near silence—sleek, rounded vehicles topped with solar panels that shimmer like dragonfly wings in the sunlight. Their wheels barely seem to touch the ground as they steer themselves in gentle, effortless arcs, carrying laughing families and workers who read or chat while the vehicles take them where they need to go. This is what victory built when it was finally allowed to build something good instead of weapons.

It’s beautiful. Overwhelmingly so. My heart gives a quick, familiar flutter—the old instinct to scan for exits, for threats, for anything that might suddenly turn sharp. I tighten my grip on Peeta’s hand, letting the solid warmth of his palm chase the feeling away.

Willow tugs on his other hand, pointing up at a building wrapped entirely in flowering ivy. “Daddy, do you think those flowers are real? Can we touch them?”

“They’re very much real,” Peeta answers, his voice gentle but firm. “But they’re too high up for us to reach safely. If we tried, you’d have to lean way over the edge, and that’s not something I’m willing to risk. We can look all we want, though.”

I smile at their exchange and rub slow circles across Emmer’s back through the wrap, letting the three of them—the man who chose me a thousand times over, the daughter who carries our light, the son who carries our caution—anchor me to this new world we helped create.

Twenty minutes. Just a short tour. A chance to thank a man who helped give us the peace to stand here, hand in hand, watching our children discover a future that once seemed impossible.

I take a slow breath, the air sweet with blooming flowers and warm metal, and say, “Lead the way.”

After only ten minutes on the wide, sunlit sidewalks, I glance at Willow’s short legs already starting to drag with excitement, then at the subtle hitch in Peeta’s step that he tries so hard to hide whenever he overdoes it. Nearly twenty-one years with that prosthetic, and he still pushes himself like he’s trying to prove something to the war that’s long over.

“Peeta,” I say quietly, “we should take one of the cars the rest of the way.”

He shifts Willow higher on his hip without breaking stride, giving me what he probably thinks is a reassuring smile. It looks more like a grimace. “I’m fine, Katniss.”

I give him my best scowl and the pointed look I’ve perfected over the years. After all this time being married, he really thinks I won’t see straight through that? He lets out a long breath and stops a passing woman in a gray uniform to ask for directions. She tells us the factory is still a solid half-hour walk ahead.

“We’ll take one of the cars,” I say again, and this time he nods without argument.

We find a row of automated vehicles waiting at a marked pickup point, sleek silver pods humming softly on their magnetic pads. The nearest one’s door glides open at our approach. Inside, the seats are firm but cushioned, with safety belts that slide out smoothly and secure us snugly. Emmer stays nestled against my chest in the wrap, and Willow settles between Peeta and the window, already pressing her face to the glass.

Once we’re settled, a calm, delicate feminine voice fills the cabin—warm but unmistakably artificial. “Please state your destination.”

“Luxury Technology Factory, main visitor entrance,” Peeta says clearly.

The car chimes softly and glides forward so smoothly I barely feel us leave the curb. No engine roar, no jolts—just a low, melodic hum beneath us as we weave through the gleaming streets of District 3.

Willow keeps her whole face smushed against the window, gasping in wonder as she cranes her neck to take in the towering buildings sliding past. Everything here runs on sunlight. Solar panels shimmer across every rooftop and balcony, drinking in the midday light. Vines and flowering plants spill from tiered gardens built right into the architecture—living walls of green that turn the skyscrapers into vertical forests.

I catch glimpses of workers in uniform tending them from narrow, hovering platforms that lift them to the heights they need. It makes my stomach do a strange little flip seeing them suspended so high above the street.

It’s beautiful in its own orderly, deliberate way, but my hunter’s heart still misses the wild tangle of woods that surround our home. The dense, breathing forests of Twelve feel alive in a way these cultivated towers never quite match. Still, I can’t deny the quiet peace that settles over me watching our daughter discover it all for the first time.

Emmer sucks on his fingers, the side of his face resting warm against my chest as his eyes follow the passing scenes. Twenty years after the war, and here we are—riding through a city that once helped build the Capitol’s weapons, now building tools that make life easier instead of ending it. The thought still feels fragile sometimes, like something I might wake up from.

The car slows to a graceful stop right in front of the factory, a soaring glass-and-steel structure that rises so high it seems to lean against the sky itself. A few people trickle in and out through the wide entrance—some in crisp lab coats with glowing ID badges clipped to their pockets, others wearing visitor stickers on their shirts and clutching small demonstration gadgets that blink and hum softly in their hands.

We slide out onto the smooth pavement. The warm afternoon air carries a faint metallic tang mixed with the sweet scent of blooming jasmine drifting down from the hanging gardens overhead. Peeta shoulders our bag and leads us straight to the visitor desk inside the bright, high-ceilinged lobby. Holographic displays float above the counter, cycling through clean images of circuits and smiling technicians in white coats.

We’re just in time—only five minutes before the next tour begins.

Peeta picks up one of the black markers and writes both our names on two stickers in the space provided. He peels his own and presses it neatly to his shirt. I snort when I see the tiny, perfect doodle of a loaf of bread he’s added in the corner, complete with delicate curling steam lines. He grins at me, completely unrepentant, that boyish spark still bright in his blue eyes after all these years.

Then he peels mine off and, with a mischievous little smile, places it right in the middle of my forehead. I scowl at him even as he chuckles, the sound low and warm. I carefully peel it off and stick it to the sleeve of my shirt instead—Emmer is nestled too snugly against my chest for me to reach my own. Peeta takes another sticker, writes Emmer’s name in careful letters, and smooths it gently onto the wrap against our son’s back.

Willow bounces on her toes, trying to see over the edge of the counter even though her short height makes it impossible. “Can I write mine, Daddy?”

“Of course, my girl.” Peeta lifts her easily into his arms and leans her over the sticker sheet. She steadies her small hand with fierce concentration and carefully prints WILLOW in big, wobbly letters. He helps her peel it and smooths it onto the front of her yellow dress.

“Mommy, look! I did it all by myself!” she exclaims happily as he sets her back on her feet.

I smile and run one of her dark braids through my fingers. “And you’ve gotten so good at writing it. You’re so smart, Willow.”

She beams up at me, cheeks flushed with pride, then slips her hand back into Peeta’s as he guides us toward the bank of gleaming elevators. Willow insists on pressing the button for the twentieth floor herself. She rises onto her tiptoes, tongue poking out in concentration, and bounces with pure delight when the doors slide shut and we begin our smooth, silent ascent.

Watching her—cheeks flushed, eyes shining at something as simple as an elevator ride—fills my chest with a fierce, aching kind of joy. She makes the whole world feel new and bright and endlessly possible.

This is what we fought for. This is what we survived for. A daughter who wakes up every morning free to explore, to ask questions, to be loud and curious and completely herself without ever fearing a whip or a reaping or a camera forcing her into someone else’s story. A son who will never know the harsh hand of an abusive mother or the terror of watching almost everyone he loves disappear. We finally live in a world where Peeta and I can give them the kind of childhood we were never given.

I lean my body against Peeta’s side. He turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to my temple, his hand rubbing slow, affectionate circles against my hip. And I feel it all in my bones.

I just feel happy.

The tour guide’s voice echoes pleasantly through the bright, sterile halls as we step into the first laboratory, and I have to admit—the whole thing pulls me in more than I expected. We move from room to room like we’re walking through the future itself.

In the first lab, technicians in crisp white coats work beneath floating magnifying lenses that cast soft, focused beams of light across wide tables. Delicate watches and clocks are being assembled piece by piece, tiny gears clicking into place with quiet precision.

The air carries a faint scent of clean metal and something faintly sweet. Willow leans forward in Peeta’s arms, completely captivated, while Emmer stays tucked against my chest in the wrap, his small body warm and heavy as he watches the flashing lights with solemn, blinking eyes.

We follow the group into the next room, and the atmosphere shifts. Here the space feels more open, the tables lower and wider. Small robots no bigger than rabbits scuttle across the surfaces on nimble metal legs, their movements quick and strangely graceful.

One flips end over end before landing perfectly upright. Another twists itself into a tight spiral, then unfurls again like it’s stretching after a long sleep. A third begins to dance in perfect time with a soft, hummed tune from one of the engineers standing nearby—a simple, wordless melody that somehow makes the little machines seem almost alive.

Willow’s delighted giggles spill out like water over stones. She claps every time one of the robots lands a perfect somersault, her blue eyes wide and sparkling.

“Look, Daddy! They’re dancing!” she exclaims, bouncing slightly in Peeta’s hold. He chuckles softly and adjusts his grip on her, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head as he watches with her.

I find myself smiling without meaning to. There’s something about the way the robots move—precise but almost playful—that makes the whole room feel lighter. Emmer shifts against my chest and lets out a small, interested coo, one chubby hand reaching out as if he wants to touch the nearest machine even from this distance. I catch his little fingers gently and press a kiss to the top of his soft curls, breathing in the familiar milky scent that still clings to him.

Watching Willow’s pure, unfiltered joy and feeling Emmer’s small, curious weight against me, something warm and steady settles in my chest. This is the kind of wonder I never got to have as a child. No fear of what might come next. No need to stay quiet or small. Just bright lights, clever machines, and the simple magic of watching something impossible happen right in front of you.

I glance at Peeta and catch him already looking at me, that quiet, knowing smile on his face—the one that says he sees exactly what this moment is doing to me. I don’t say anything. I just reach over and thread my fingers through his free hand, letting the warmth of his palm anchor me here, in this bright room full of dancing robots and our children’s laughter.

We follow the tour group into the next section of the factory, where the air hums with a low, electric thrum and the walls glow with shifting panels of light. Interactive stations line the wide room, each one surrounded by clusters of children and adults leaning over glowing consoles. The space feels alive in a way the old Capitol labs never did—curious hands instead of cold efficiency, laughter instead of orders.

Willow immediately starts wriggling in Peeta’s arms, her small body practically vibrating with the need to touch everything at once. He sets her down carefully but keeps a firm hold on her hand. We both know why. The memory still sits sharp in my chest, even after all this time.

I was heavily pregnant with Emmer then, my belly round and heavy under my coat, when it happened. We were at the winter market in Twelve, just a normal afternoon. I had turned to check the fresh produce stall—only for a second—and when I looked back, Willow was gone. One moment her small hand was in mine, the next the crowd had swallowed her whole. The fear that tore through me was worse than anything the arena ever threw at me. I couldn’t run properly, not with Emmer kicking hard against my ribs, but I ran anyway, calling her name until my voice cracked.

When I couldn’t find her, I stumbled into the bakery kitchens in a sobbing, shaking mess. Peeta took one look at my face and didn’t ask questions. He grabbed his coat, laced his fingers through mine, and pulled me back out into the freezing December air.

My mind went straight to the worst places. The woods. The old mine shafts. Someone with bad intentions. Every nightmare I’d ever had about losing the people I love clawed its way up my throat.

Then, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, I heard her voice calling for me. She came running out from between two stalls, and I dropped to my knees right there in the snow and crushed her against me. Delly was right behind her, cheeks pink from the cold, explaining in her gentle way that she’d spotted Willow bouncing with excitement beside a stall selling puppies. She’d stayed with her the whole time. When they couldn’t find me, Delly had been heading straight to the bakery to bring Willow to Peeta. Safe. Whole. Just excited about soft fur and wagging tails.

I was so grateful it was Delly. I still see her around town, mostly because she’s one of Peeta’s oldest friends, but that day I could have kissed her. The thought of anyone else finding my daughter first still makes my stomach twist.

After that, we sat Willow down and explained, as calmly as we could, why wandering off is dangerous—even in Twelve, even now. She cried when she realized how scared I’d been, her little face crumpling with guilt. I held her and told her the truth: that it’s safe to make mistakes in our family, as long as we learn from them. She hasn’t wandered off since. But we still keep a tight grip on her hand in crowds. Some fears don’t loosen their hold easily.

Willow tugs us toward the nearest station now, her excitement pulling us forward like a small, determined engine. At the first console, visitors snap together colorful circuit pieces that make floating glass globes above us shift and glow—soft blue melting into vibrant violet, then warming into gold. The lights dance across Willow’s upturned face, painting her cheeks in shifting colors. Her eyes are huge with wonder.

“Daddy,” she says, tilting her head back to look at him, “when I grow up, can I make lights glow like this instead of being a baker?”

Peeta chuckles, the sound low and warm, and gives her side a gentle tickle that makes her squirm and giggle. “You can be whatever you want to be, little bird. Though I’ll be pretty sad to lose my best decorating apprentice.”

Willow beams up at him, completely serious. “It’s okay, Daddy. I can still bake with you at home on weekends. We can make cinnamon rolls and everything.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he says, smiling as he brushes a stray braid behind her ear. “Unless I get old and forgetful one day. Then you’ll be off the hook.”

Willow shakes her head so hard her braids swing. “Silly Daddy. People don’t turn grey.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. We’ve never taken her to the Capitol, and we don’t plan to anytime soon. She has no idea people there once dyed their skin every color of the rainbow. To her, grey skin is something that only happens in stories.

Peeta glances over at me then, that quiet, knowing look in his eyes—the one that says he remembers the market day too, and everything that came after. I reach down and cover Willow’s small hand with my free one, so both of us are holding her now. The floating globes keep shifting above us, painting our little family in soft, changing light.

For a moment, the fear from that winter day feels very far away. We’re here. She’s here. And in this new Panem, our daughter gets to dream about making lights glow instead of worrying about whether there will be enough food to eat.

We move on to the next interactive station, where a long panel of speakers and glowing touchscreens lines one wall. Willow’s eyes light up the moment she spots it. She presses a button and the whole room suddenly fills with sound—clear, trilling meadowlark songs that make something deep in my chest tighten for half a second before I remember these are only recordings, safe and harmless. The low, guttural growl of some large animal follows, then the soft rustle of wind moving through tall grass and leaves. The noises feel so alive they almost smell like the woods back home.

Pictures and short descriptions float above each speaker. Willow bounces on her toes and jabs the button labeled “lion.” A deep, rumbling roar bursts out, vibrating through the floor and straight into my bones.

She jumps with a startled squeak and throws her arms around Peeta’s leg, burying her face against him.

Peeta chuckles softly and rubs slow circles on her back, his voice warm and steady. “It’s alright, Willow. It’s just a sound. Nothing real is here.”

“It sounds scary,” she mumbles, peeking out with one eye.

“It does, doesn’t it?” He crouches a little so he’s closer to her level, even with the slight hitch in his prosthetic that he tries to hide. “It’s okay to feel scared. But remember, there aren’t any lions in Panem. Nothing here can hurt you.”

“And if one tried, Mommy would shoot it with her bow!” Willow declares, suddenly brightening as she looks up at me with complete faith.

I grin down at her, the familiar hunter’s instinct flickering to life for just a moment. “It would be dead before it took another step. We’d be having lion stew for dinner if it even thought about bothering you.”

Willow dissolves into giggles, the fear already forgotten. She grabs Peeta’s hand again and tugs him toward the next button, but I linger behind, drawn to the floating text and images.

African Lion

This large animal is classified as a mammal.
Though it is not found in Panem, old world
documents recovered from Capitol labs suggest
it once roamed a place called the African Savanna.
A fierce predator, it hunted weaker animals and
was known as the leader of its domain.

Known number of lions living today: Unknown

I press the button again just to hear that powerful roar one more time. The sound rolls through me, wild and ancient. I move along the panel, discovering animals I’ve never seen before—striped tigers with burning orange coats, massive hippopotamuses with cavernous mouths, thick-skinned rhinoceroses, and a strange, bright bird called a toucan with a rainbow beak longer than its body. Every single one carries the same quiet note at the bottom: population unknown.

It still surprises me how much the Capitol kept hidden. The schools these days teach more than just Panem’s history; Willow comes home talking about places with names like Europe and Asia, oceans wider than anything I can picture, and animals that sound like something out of Haymitch’s wilder stories. Peeta and I are learning right alongside her, piecing together a bigger world than the one we fought to save.

Sometimes at night, after the kids are asleep, we lie in bed and wonder aloud if other people are still out there somewhere—people who never knew about the Hunger Games or the rebellion. If they existed, why didn’t they help us? Or were we truly alone all that time?

I hate not knowing. The uncertainty sits like an itch I can’t scratch, the same way it always has. But standing here in this bright, humming room with my daughter’s laughter echoing off the walls and Peeta’s steady presence beside me, the question feels a little less heavy. We survived. We built something better. And maybe one day, when Willow and Emmer are older, we’ll learn the rest of the answers together.

Willow calls my name, impatient now, and I step away from the panel to rejoin them, slipping my hand into Peeta’s free one. The meadowlark song starts up again from another speaker, softer this time, and it sounds almost like home.

At the next station a slow-moving conveyor belt glides past a row of open slots, each one marked with a different symbol. Kids drop scraps of metal, plastic, glass, and wood into the openings while a soft scanner hums and analyzes every piece. With a cheerful chime, tiny mechanical arms gently whisk each material away toward the correct laboratory chute. The whole setup is bright and almost playful, more like a game than serious technology.

Willow is having the time of her life. She plants herself right in front of the belt and enlists Peeta as her “assistant,” which apparently means he has to hand her whatever material she points at next.

“No, not that one, Daddy—the shiny blue piece! The blue one!” she orders, hands on her hips like a tiny factory boss.

Peeta plays along perfectly, fumbling the scrap on purpose and nearly dropping it. “This blue one? Are you sure? I think this one’s purple.”

“It’s blue!” she squeals, dissolving into giggles so hard she has to lean against him. “You’re the worst assistant ever!”

“I’m trying my best, boss,” he says solemnly, handing her the correct piece with a flourish. She drops it into the slot with exaggerated care, then claps when the scanner chimes and the chute accepts it. The two of them are completely wrapped up in each other, her dark braids bouncing every time she laughs, his big hands carefully matching her pace so she never has to stretch or wait.

I stand a little off to the side, swaying gently in place. Emmer has been sound asleep in the wrap for a while now, his warm, solid weight against my chest, soft breath puffing against my collarbone. I hum under my breath—one of the old lullabies that always settles him—and keep my eyes on the other two most important people in my life. Watching them play like this still steals the air from my lungs sometimes.

I’m so glad I was able to give Peeta this. He would have been happy with just the two of us for the rest of our lives; he never once pressured me or made me feel like I was failing him. But I always knew how much he wanted children. I saw it in the soft way he watched the kids who came into the bakery, the quiet longing that crossed his face when we walked to the lake in summer and heard other families laughing in the meadow. He never said the words out loud, but I felt what it cost him every time he swallowed that want down for my sake.

He asked only once, early in our marriage, voice careful and steady. I told him the truth: I didn’t know if I could, that most days I leaned hard toward no. He simply nodded and said it was always my decision. If I never wanted children, then we wouldn’t have any. That was the moment I realized how completely safe I was with him—how he would carry the weight of that sacrifice without ever letting me feel the burden of it.

For a long time I truly believed I would never find the will. I was still grieving Prim so fiercely it felt like a second skin, still fighting the nightmares and the hollow places the war had left behind. The idea of putting a child into a world that had taken so much from me felt impossible.

That all changed one ordinary night.

I was lying with my head in Peeta’s lap while he read aloud from one of the pre-Dark Days fiction novels Dr. Aurelius had gifted us. He read so expressively—changing his voice for every character, pausing in exactly the right places—that a single, clear thought cut through every fear I still carried: I want him reading stories like that to our child.

It was almost funny, looking back. I sat up without warning, snatched the book out of his hands, and tossed it over my shoulder onto the floor. Then I climbed straight into his lap, took his face between my hands, and told him I wanted a baby.

I kissed him before he could answer. We didn’t talk much after that—not until we were both breathless and tangled together later, the house quiet around us. When he finally found his voice, all he asked was whether I was sure I was ready. I didn’t think I would ever feel completely ready, but I knew I felt safe. Supported. Loved enough to risk it. That was enough.

I simply said yes.

The grin that broke across his face was unlike anything I had ever seen—bright and boyish and so full of joy it was almost blinding. It stayed there for days. Haymitch grumbled every time he saw it, muttering about how sickeningly happy we were, but Peeta just laughed and ignored him. Nothing could dim that smile.

I didn’t tell him right away when I found out I was pregnant. Instead I ordered an old children’s storybook from the Capitol—something soft and colorful with talking animals and happy endings. When it arrived, I walked into the living room where he sat sketching on the couch and dropped the book gently into his lap.

“What’s this?” he asked, already opening it with curious fingers.

“You need to start practicing,” I said. “The baby growing in my belly is going to want stories.”

I have never seen Peeta cry the way he did that day. He has always been open with his tears, always let me see the vulnerable parts of him, but the way he sobbed while thanking me—broken, joyful, overwhelmed—pulled the same tears from my own eyes. We held each other for a long time on that couch, the half-sketched drawing forgotten between us.

I look back on those memories now with pure fondness. They remind me how deeply we both wanted Willow and Emmer. How much these two tiny humans have contributed to our healing. How easily I would put my own life on the line if it meant keeping them safe.

I press a soft kiss to the top of Emmer’s ashy-blonde curls and rest my cheek against the warm curve of his head, breathing him in. His little body is so completely relaxed against me that I already hate the thought of the day he won’t need me this close anymore. For now, though, he still does. And I get to hold him while I watch his sister boss his father around a factory conveyor belt, both of them laughing like the world has never been anything but kind.

By the time the tour begins to wind down, a cluster of young lab assistants appears near the exit of the last laboratory, smiling as they hand out bright electric-blue lanyards to every child. Each one carries a shiny plastic badge that reads “District 3’s Best Tech Scientist” in bold, colorful letters. Willow loops hers carefully around her neck and stands a little taller, chest puffed with pride.

The badge sits slightly crooked against her yellow dress, but she keeps reaching up to touch it as if making sure it’s real. Peeta and I catch each other’s eye over her head and share a quiet, amused smile at how completely serious she is about the whole thing.

We file into the final stop—the observation deck. The space opens wide and airy around us, filled with soft, low seating and floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows that look out over District 3’s green-tinged skyline. Living walls of vines and flowering plants cascade down the glass towers outside, catching the afternoon light so the whole city seems to glow. Soft music hums somewhere overhead, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and something sweet—jasmine, maybe, drifting in from the vertical gardens.

Sure enough, Beetee waits near the far end of the room, close to the exit doors. He sits in a sleek, modern wheelchair, his familiar black cane resting across his lap. The silver in his beard and hair catches the light, and the deep lines around his eyes speak of every hard year since the war. Those same slightly crooked black-framed glasses still sit on his nose exactly as I remember them.

A tall man in a perfectly tailored dark coat stands beside him—Vector Byte, I assume—his posture straight and professional, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Vector steps forward, his voice carrying easily across the room without needing to raise it. “Thank you all for joining our tour today. We hope you’ve gained some fresh insight into how we create the tools that make life in Panem brighter and easier. As always, we’re looking for bright minds to join our team—whether for training or full-time work. Please stop by the lobby desk on your way out if you’re interested. Feel free to stay here in the observation deck, take a seat if you wish, and someone will come around to take your food order.”

The crowd begins to disperse with soft chatter and the scrape of chairs. Some families settle at the empty tables near the windows while others head straight for the doors, still talking about the dancing robots or the floating lights. The space thins quickly until the deck feels almost private again.

Beetee’s sharp eyes find us easily now that the large group no longer swallows us. They light with genuine recognition, and he murmurs something to the young woman standing behind his chair. She wheels him forward with smooth, quiet efficiency until he stops right in front of us. He leans slightly to peer over the tops of those familiar glasses, a small smile already forming.

“Well,” he says, his voice softer now, worn gentle by age but still carrying that quiet spark of intelligence I remember so clearly, “it seems my eyes are still reliable after all. Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen—standing right here in my factory.”

“Katniss Mellark now,” I correct gently, lifting my left hand just enough for the simple gold band and its single pearl to catch the light. Peeta’s hand finds the small of my back, steady as ever. His own carved wooden ring is visible as he rests his free hand lightly on the top of Willow’s head, fingers brushing her dark braids.

Beetee’s gaze flicks between our rings, and a small, pleased smile creases the corners of his eyes. “Of course. My apologies. Congratulations—truly. And I assume these bright young ones are yours?”

Emmer is still deeply asleep against my chest in the wrap, one chubby hand curled loosely near his mouth. Willow stays front and center, badge gleaming, staring at this man she’s never met but clearly senses is important to her parents.

Peeta chuckles softly, the sound warm. “That’s our son, Emmer—though he’s currently out cold after a very exciting morning. And this is our daughter, Willow. She’s been talking nonstop about the labs we saw on the tour. I think you might have a future Mellark looking to join the ranks one day.”

Beetee leans forward a little more, smile widening as he looks straight at Willow. His voice softens even further. “Would you like to see the floor I manage personally, little scientist?”

Willow glances up at Peeta for permission. He gives her an encouraging wink and a tiny nod. She turns back to Beetee, suddenly remembering her manners, and says in her clearest voice, “Yes, please.”

“Very well.” Beetee settles back into his chair, looking thoroughly satisfied. “Nova, to the elevators, if you please.”

The young woman nods and turns the wheelchair with practiced ease. We fall into step behind them, following the smooth, quiet glide of Beetee’s chair across the polished floor toward the gleaming bank of elevators.

The elevator glides upward two floors with barely a whisper. When the doors slide open, the atmosphere shifts immediately. This level is quieter—fewer visitors, softer overhead lighting that casts everything in a cool blue glow, and the low, steady hum of focused work instead of the playful chatter from the tour floors below. The air smells faintly of warm electronics and something clean and sharp, like ozone after a summer storm.

Beetee shifts in his wheelchair, gripping the arms as he tries to stand. Peeta is at his side in an instant, one steady hand under Beetee’s elbow, while Nova supports the other side. With his cane planted firmly, Beetee rises—a little unsteady, the effort clear in the set of his jaw, but determined.

“Come, Mellarks,” he says, a grin flashing beneath the silver of his beard. “Let me show you what really happens on my floor.”

This level feels more serious. Rows of glass-walled laboratories stretch down both sides of the wide corridor. Inside each one, technicians hunch over glowing holographic schematics filled with equations that make my head spin and words I couldn’t begin to pronounce. Finished inventions line long display tables behind them: sleek handheld communicators no bigger than a pocket, medical scanners that pulse with soft green light when they detect a heartbeat, and small drones that hover obediently at a simple gesture from their creators.

Beetee pauses at each doorway, explaining the purpose of the room in his quiet, precise way, but always with a gentle warning not to step inside. The equipment is too delicate, too dangerous for casual visitors. We stay carefully at the thresholds, peering in while Willow presses her face almost against the glass, eyes wide with wonder.

At the end of the hall he leads us into a larger open room where people sit at long stations, fingers flying over holographic keypads and sliding or pinching images across floating screens. The light from the displays paints their faces in shifting colors. Beetee guides us past them to a quieter corner behind a tall privacy divider. Tables here are littered with completed prototypes—polished metal, smooth glass, tiny blinking lights.

He picks up a small, beautifully crafted device and places it carefully in Peeta’s open palm. It looks almost ancient next to the glowing technology around us, yet elegant in its simplicity.

“This is something we recreated from designs that survived the Dark Days,” Beetee says. “A handheld camera that captures a single moment in a photograph. It uses these little rolls of film.” He sets a tiny metal canister into Peeta’s other hand. “Our newest model produces clearer images than anything from before the war. You can have the film developed in any district now.”

Peeta turns the camera over slowly, thumb tracing the smooth casing and the small glass lens. “That’s… pretty incredible.”

Beetee waves a hand dismissively, though his eyes are warm. “Keep it. Twenty-four shots on the roll, plus three extra. Consider it a small gift.”

Peeta’s eyes widen. Mine do too. “We can’t accept this,” he starts, the same protest rising to my own lips. “We couldn’t possibly repay—”

“No repayment necessary.” Beetee’s voice softens further, regret threading through it like an old, familiar scar. “Think of it as… a peace offering. I want to apologize—for separating the two of you at the lightning tree. Even if it was one of the steps that eventually brought us to this world.”

The memory crashes over me without warning: the blinding flash of lightning, the crackle of the force field, the desperate warmth of Peeta’s lips on mine in those final seconds before I followed Johanna away from the tree. The last time I saw him whole and untouched, before the Capitol tore him apart and put him back together wrong. My throat tightens around a stone I thought had long since dissolved.

I swallow hard and pull Willow gently against my front, one arm wrapping around her like a shield. Peeta’s face tightens for half a second—the same old shadow crossing his blue eyes—before he forces it away. My free hand finds the small of his back, rubbing slow, steady circles until the tension eases under my palm.

“Okay…” Peeta manages finally, voice rough but steady. “Thank you.”

Beetee nods once, quiet understanding passing between the three of us without another word. “Here—let me show you how it works.” He takes the camera back briefly and demonstrates each part with patient, careful hands: how to load the film, wind it after every shot, frame a picture through the small viewfinder, the gentle click and soft mechanical buzz when the image is captured. “This button here for the flash when the light is low.”

Peeta slips the camera and the extra rolls carefully into our bag with quiet, genuine thanks. Before we can move on, Willow steps forward and tugs lightly at the hem of Beetee’s trousers.

“Yes, little Mellark?” he asks, looking down at her with eyes that suddenly twinkle.

“I turned six last month,” she says, voice small but clear and proud, “and I really like your District.”

Beetee chuckles, the sound warm and surprised. “I’m very glad to hear that. Would you like me to show you how some of these other gadgets work?”

Willow nods so hard her badge swings, then follows him along the length of the table without a moment’s hesitation. I settle into a nearby armchair with Emmer still deeply asleep against my chest, and Peeta sits on the armrest beside me, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

I trace slow, idle patterns up and down Emmer’s back through the soft fabric of the wrap while the two of us watch our daughter follow Beetee from prototype to prototype. She asks question after question, growing bolder with every answer he gives, her bright laughter mixing with the low hum of the gadgets and the quiet click of switches.

I watch them—my daughter wearing her scientist badge like a medal of honor, the old victor who once helped wire a revolution now patiently guiding her small hands over a glowing console—and something deep inside my chest settles into place.

All these years after the war, the surviving victors have carved out this kind of ordinary, precious normalcy. A life where our names aren’t only tied to arenas and rebellions. Where our children can giggle at dancing robots and dream of building things that light up the world instead of burning it down. Where a quiet afternoon in a sunlit factory floor feels like the greatest victory of all.

I close my eyes for a moment, cheek resting against Emmer’s soft ashy-blonde hair, and let the steady rhythm of his breathing remind me of the simplest truth: we made it. All of us. And this—this ordinary, beautiful day—is exactly what we fought for.

()()()

Beetee won’t hear of us leaving without him seeing us out properly. Nova wheels him smoothly into the elevator beside us, and as the doors glide shut, he looks up at Peeta and me. His voice drops low enough that Willow, busy examining her scientist badge, won’t catch the full weight behind the words.

“The shock from the arena left deeper marks than I realized at the time,” he says quietly. “These days my legs remind me of it more often. I spend most of my time in the chair now. Less time on my feet, more time thinking.” He gives a small, rueful smile. “Age has a way of collecting old debts.”

I nod, throat tight. I still remember the way his body had jerked and seized after he tried to break the arena force field in the Quarter Quell—the same lightning that once separated Peeta and me.

“Is it painful?” Peeta asks, brows furrowed with genuine concern.

Beetee shrugs one thin shoulder. “If I’m on my feet too long, or sometimes when I’m lying in bed, I get sudden jolts. But it’s something I can live with. Don’t worry over an old man’s health.” He chuckles softly, the sound dry but not bitter.

Peeta offers a small, understanding smile and gently steers the conversation toward safer ground—questions about new projects, the vertical gardens outside, the way District 3 has changed. Beetee answers with quiet pride, and the rest of the short ride passes in easier talk.

The elevator doors open onto the bright, airy lobby. Afternoon sunlight pours through the tall glass walls, turning everything gold. Nova wheels Beetee all the way to the main exit. He looks at us for a long moment, his gaze moving slowly from Peeta to me, to the sleeping weight of Emmer against my chest, and finally to Willow’s small hand curled tightly in her father’s. A gentle smile softens the deep lines of his face.

“You two have built something beautiful,” he says quietly. “A life that’s truly your own. Well deserved, if anyone’s ever was.”

Peeta’s arm slides around my waist, careful not to jostle Emmer. “Thank you. But it’s Katniss and our children who make my life beautiful. Without them…” He shakes his head, the words catching for just a second. “I’d be lost.”

I lean into his side, letting his solid warmth steady me. “We’re even,” I murmur. “Because I’d be lost without you.”

Peeta chuckles softly and presses a lingering kiss to my temple, the gesture so familiar it feels like home no matter where we stand.

Beetee watches us with something almost wistful in his eyes—the kind of look that carries years of quiet, private grief. “Indeed. I look forward to the day I see my wife again, and our little baby, and my precious Ampert. But I still have work to finish here first. I owe it to them—to make them proud with whatever time I have left. That’s all any of us can do in the end.”

The ache in my chest is sudden and sharp. I know what it is to lose everything. I know what it is to keep breathing anyway. But spending all those years alone, carrying that kind of love with no one left to hold… I don’t know if I could do it. I squeeze Peeta’s hand harder than I mean to.

“That’s true,” Peeta says, voice rough with understanding. “I’m sure you’re making them incredibly proud. Every single day.”

Beetee nods once. His eyes begin to glisten a little behind his glasses, but he straightens in the chair with quiet dignity. “Well, then. Let this be our goodbye, Mellarks. I suspect our paths won’t cross again in this life. I feel it in these old bones—I may not have much longer.” He says it simply, without drama, the way someone who has already faced death many times over might speak of the weather.

A small, unexpected sadness blooms behind my ribs. We were never close the way we are with Johanna or Annie, but he’s one of the last ones left who truly understands. One of the few who remembers what it cost to stand where we stood.

“Goodbye, Beetee,” Peeta says, reaching out to clasp the older man’s hand firmly. “Thank you… for everything.”

I step forward and squeeze Beetee’s fingers—thin now, but still steady and warm. Words have never been my strength, especially the leaving kind, so I just hold on for a moment longer than necessary. He seems to understand.

“Keep doing what you both do best,” he tells us, eyes shining. “Protect each other.”

“Always will,” Peeta answers, the promise warm and certain.

With one last small wave, Nova turns the wheelchair. We step through the wide glass doors into the bright afternoon air of District 3. The city hums quietly around us—silent solar cars gliding past, vines rustling softly against the green-wrapped skyscrapers, the faint scent of jasmine drifting down from the hanging gardens.

I turn to Peeta and find him already looking at me, blue eyes searching mine the way they always have when the past brushes too close.

“You okay?” The question is quiet, but I hear everything underneath it: How are you after hearing the arena mentioned again? After seeing another victor worn thin by time? After being reminded how differently all our lives turned out?

I take a slow breath, feeling the solid, sleeping weight of Emmer against my heart, Willow’s small fingers now reaching for mine, Peeta’s hand warm and steady at my back.

“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I am.”

I may never be completely okay with everything we lost. The nightmares still come sometimes. The old fear still flickers when a crack of lightning sounds during a storm at home, or when the lights go out too suddenly. But I know how to carry it now. I know how to survive it the way I always have—by living.

I will endure.

I will wake up every morning and choose this life I fought so hard for.

I will fill it with laughter and fresh bread and muddy hikes to the lake and bedtime stories that have nothing to do with arenas.

I will raise our children to be kind and brave and free.

I will make every person we lost proud—Prim, my father, Finnick, Rue, everyone—by refusing to let the darkness win.

I will live the full, ordinary, beautiful life Effie once begged me to find, the life Boggs believed I deserved, the life Snow and Coin tried with everything they had to steal from me.

And when the day comes that I see them all again, I’ll be able to look them in the eye and say I had no regrets.

I squeeze Peeta’s hand, lean down to kiss the top of Willow’s dark head, and breathe in the clean, sun-warmed air of a world we helped make safe.

“Come on,” I say softly. “The train will leave soon, and we still have a lot of adventure left.”

We spend the rest of our short afternoon wandering the sun-drenched streets of District 3, letting the city unfold around us like one of Peeta’s paintings slowly coming to life. Sleek silver buildings rise on every side, their living walls cascading with vines and flowers. Silent solar cars glide past, and the air carries a clean mix of warm metal, blooming flowers, and the faint sweetness of distant bakeries. Eventually we find our way to one of the famous rooftop gardens high above the skyline—a lush, wide terrace ringed by invisible glass barriers so clear they seem to vanish into the blue.

The entire space spills over with colour. Neatly trimmed shrubs form intricate spirals and shapes, while beds of flowers stretch in every direction—deep reds, soft pinks, buttery yellows, and violets so vivid they almost glow. The wind up here is gentle and cool, carrying the low hum of the city far below. Families stroll the winding paths, children chase each other between the blooms, and couples sit on low stone benches simply watching the sky.

Emmer eventually stirs against my chest, blinking awake with that slow, bewildered look only toddlers can manage. His grey eyes are still heavy with sleep as I carefully set him down on the soft grass that carpets the garden, keeping a firm but gentle hold on his tiny hand. His legs are wobbly at first, but he toddles forward eagerly, pointing with chubby fingers at the nearest bright clusters of flowers.

“Wiow! Peen!” he squeals, jabbing a finger at a soft pink bloom.

I chuckle and run my free hand gently over the top of his ashy-blonde curls. “That’s right, Emmer. Pink is Willow’s favourite colour.”

He babbles on happily, stringing together a few words I can actually recognise mixed with the usual toddler nonsense. I stay close, matching his slow, careful steps, ready to scoop him up if he veers too near the edge—though the glass makes it feel perfectly safe. Still, old instincts die hard. My free hand never fully relaxes.

Peeta pulls the new camera from our bag, turning it over in his hands like something precious and fragile. The soft click of the film winding sounds almost too quiet for the open air.

“Let’s see if this thing works,” he says with a grin that lights up his whole face. He crouches down, framing Willow against long rows of tulips that sway gently in the breeze—every shade imaginable, from deep crimson to sunny yellow to a violet so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Willow beams for the first shot, then immediately starts striking silly poses for the others—hands on her hips, arms flung wide, even one where she pretends to smell a flower so dramatically she nearly topples over. Emmer, not wanting to miss out, toddles into the frame and throws his arms around his sister’s waist. He smiles so hard his little face scrunches up, tiny white teeth on full display. Peeta laughs as he captures the moment.

Then Peeta turns the camera toward me with that mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Your turn,” he says. “Come on. Family picture.”

I try to protest, but he won’t hear it. I lift Emmer into my arms when he reaches up for me, and Willow immediately wraps herself around my side, resting her cheek against my hip. Even after a couple of pictures, Peeta still isn’t satisfied. He flags down a passing young couple and asks them, with that easy charm of his, if they’d mind taking a few shots of all of us.

The woman smiles and takes the camera carefully. Peeta lifts Willow onto his shoulders; she settles there like she belongs, cheek resting on the top of his head, dark braids swinging. I lean into his side, Emmer warm and solid in my arms, and manage a shy smile just as the woman presses the shutter. The soft click and gentle buzz of the film advancing feel almost ceremonial.

She hands the camera back with a warm “You’ve got a beautiful family,” and Peeta thanks her sincerely before tucking the little device safely away again.

For a long moment we just stand there among the flowers, the wind cool against our faces, the city glittering far below. Willow still perched on Peeta’s shoulders, Emmer’s soft weight against my chest, Peeta’s arm steady around us both. The new camera sits quietly in the bag, already holding pieces of this ordinary, perfect afternoon.

I rest my head briefly against Peeta’s shoulder and breathe in the scent of sun-warmed flowers and clean air, letting the quiet joy of it settle deep into my bones.

By the time we finish at the rooftop garden and weave back through the bustling streets to the station, the departure announcement is already echoing across the platform in that calm, melodic voice:

“Train 256, final destination District 4, will depart for its next stop in District 7 in ten minutes. All passengers please board.”

We hurry aboard, the soles of our shoes slapping lightly against the polished platform. I’m quietly thankful we hadn’t been running as late as the knot in my stomach had been insisting. The carriage door seals behind us with a soft hiss, and the sudden quiet of the corridor feels almost luxurious after the bright noise of District 3.

Back in our compartment the late-afternoon light slants golden through the wide windows, painting long rectangles across the carpet and the edges of the beds. The train still waits, humming low and patient beneath us. We settle into the familiar rhythm of our little rolling home so Willow and Emmer can come down from the long, bright day. Peeta sits cross-legged on the floor with Willow, a sketchpad open between them.

She directs him in that serious little voice she uses when she’s the boss of something: “More tulips, Daddy. And make the robots have blue eyes like mine.”

His pencil moves in easy strokes, the soft scratch of graphite a steady undercurrent. I lower myself onto the thick carpet with Emmer, spreading out the small wooden animals and soft blocks we packed. He immediately claims the little wooden goose Haymitch carved, banging it against the floor in rhythmic thumps that make him giggle, grey eyes sparkling up at me every few seconds as if checking I’m still right here.

The train whistle finally blows—low and clean—and the compartment gives a gentle, almost imperceptible lurch as we begin to move. The golden light outside starts to slide, trees and buildings blurring into soft streaks of green and silver. We order dinner straight to the compartment instead of risking the dining car.

Both children are already tipping toward the edge: Emmer’s face is flushed and his lower lip has started that tell-tale wobble, and Willow keeps rubbing her eyes with the backs of her fists even while she insists she’s not tired. I would rather not test how quickly a full tantrum can bloom once we leave the safety of our own four walls.

The food arrives still warm—a hearty stew, a side of thick sandwiches, soft rolls that smell faintly of rosemary, cut fruit, and a little pot of the creamy yogurt. We eat slowly, knees almost touching in the small space. Peeta steals bites from my plate the way he always does; I pretend to scold him and he only grins wider, crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Emmer mashes half his sandwich into paste between his fingers and offers the mess to me like a gift. I accept it solemnly and make a show of eating it, which earns me a sticky, open-mouthed laugh.

I’m not surprised that after the last bites disappear, neither of them objects when I suggest showers and bed. Willow follows me into the tiny bathroom first, chattering sleepily about the tulips and the dancing robots while I rinse the District 3 dust from her dark braids. She dresses herself afterwards in the soft yellow nightgown she packed—proudly independent—while I lay Emmer on the wide bed Peeta and I share. Changing his diaper is pure muscle memory by now.

He kicks happily, eyes already heavy-lidded, little fists grabbing at my braid until I lean down and blow a long raspberry against his soft belly. The squeal that bursts out of him is pure delight, bright and ringing, and for a second the whole compartment feels lighter.

I ease him into a sleep suit with built-in booties, even though the day outside is still warm. The compartment’s cooling system keeps the air just cool enough that I worry. The soft fabric whispers over his toes; he watches my hands with that serious, quiet focus that is so completely him.

I settle back against the pillows on our bed and lift my shirt. Emmer latches on immediately, greedy and certain, and I’m quietly surprised he still wants milk after everything he ate. Like father, like son, Peeta would say with that crooked grin of his—always hungry for the things that feel like home. I trace my fingertips over the curve of Emmer’s cheek, the one thing he’s loved since the day he was born: the gentle drag of my fingertips, the slow circles that make his eyelids flutter.

Willow crawls under the covers and curls into my free side, one small hand resting on my ribs so she can feel me breathe. I begin the old lullaby my father taught me—the one about the meadow, about the place where it’s warm, about the place where I love them.

My voice stays low and steady. The melody fills the small space, soft enough that it almost disappears under the quiet hum of the rails. Willow fights sleep longest, murmuring half-formed questions about the floating lights and whether the robots get cold at night, until her words blur and her breathing finally slows. Emmer has already gone boneless against me, lips still working even as sleep claims him mid-feed.

I carefully manoeuvre him free with one hand, readjusting my shirt, then slip from the bed with the slow, deliberate care of someone who has practised this a thousand times. Willow doesn’t stir. I lower Emmer into the little crib we brought—his ashy-blonde curls already damp with sleep-sweat—and linger for a moment just watching the rise and fall of his small chest.

Peeta reappears from the bathroom dressed for bed, hair still damp, the clean scent of soap clinging to him. He moves to lift Willow gently into her own bed while I take my turn in the shower.

I undress slowly in the small bathroom, waiting for the water to warm. The keypad on the wall beeps softly under my fingers as I set the temperature. Then I turn and look at myself in the mirror.

My body has carried so much. The old scars and burns from the Games and the war are still there—pale, shiny, unforgiving. They catch the light and refuse to let me forget the years when I was nothing but a weapon, when I came out the other side barely a shell of a girl. I will always hate the sight of them.

But there are newer marks now, softer ones. The fine silver lines that fan across my lower belly from carrying two children. The gentle curve that never quite returned to the flat hardness it once held. I don’t hate those. They are proof of the good I managed to bring into this world when I thought I had nothing left to give.

And Peeta—Peeta never lets me forget. When we are alone, when the lights are low and the children are finally asleep, his hands and his mouth and his quiet, reverent words map every single part of me as if each one is something he has chosen all over again. Every scar. Every soft place. Every line that says I lived, and I loved, and I made something beautiful out of the ruins.

I stand there a moment longer, water beginning to steam behind me, and let that truth settle warm and steady in my chest.

I step under the water the moment it chimes that it’s reached the temperature I asked for. Steam curls around me as the perfectly warm spray hits my shoulders and runs down my back, washing away the last traces of District 3 dust and the long day. I tip my head forward and let it soak my hair, eyes closed, breathing in the clean, faint scent of the soap.

For a few quiet minutes there is only the steady rush of water and the low, constant hum of the train beneath my feet. When I finally turn the water off and wrap myself in a towel, my skin feels soft and warm, my thoughts slower.

I dry off quickly and pull on the only thing that ever feels right for sleeping on a train: one of Peeta’s old shirts, soft from years of washing, the fabric hanging loose and familiar past my thighs. It still smells faintly of him—yeast and clean cotton and the soap he prefers.

When I step back into the main compartment, the only light comes from the small lamp above the window and the occasional flash of distant lights outside. Willow is tucked under her covers, dark hair fanned across the pillow, one arm flung out in the deep, trusting sleep of a six-year-old. Emmer is a small, still lump in the crib, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only movement.

Peeta sits on the wide cushioned seat built into the window, legs stretched out, turning the little space into a private nook. He looks up as I appear, and the soft smile that spreads across his face is pure home.

I cross the short distance and slip straight into his lap, tucking my legs up so I’m curled against him. His arms come around me at once, warm and sure. Outside the glass the night scenery rushes past in dark, shifting shapes—silhouettes of trees and rolling hills barely lit by a thin slice of moon. The train rocks us gently, the rails singing their low, steady song beneath us.

I lean my head back against the solid wall of his chest and feel the slow, even beat of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt. A long, contented breath leaves me. His chin rests lightly on the top of my head; one of his hands begins tracing slow circles against my hip.

“Isn’t it strange…” he murmurs after a while, voice low enough not to disturb the children. “Being back on a train because we chose to.”

I let my fingertips drift up and down the warm skin of his forearm, watching the dark shapes outside blur and reform. “Mmm. Back when it felt like our lives were never really ours.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then, softer: “Do you ever think about what would have happened if we never went into the Games that year? If we’d just… aged out of the reaping?”

I angle my head so I can see the side of his face, the familiar curve of his cheek in the low light. “I don’t know. I don’t really like thinking about that stuff. Do you?”

He gives a small, one-shouldered shrug. “A little. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to have a story that was just… ours. One where I wore you down with my charm while you kept trading at the bakery I would’ve taken over someday. Took you on a real date. Found the courage to kiss you goodnight under the streetlamp outside your house.”

His mouth quirks into that crooked half-smile I know so well. “Instead of the one where the Capitol forced every single moment.”

I shift until I’m straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and run my fingers gently through the soft, damp waves of his hair. My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “Do you regret it?”

His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the cotton of his shirt. The frown that pulls his brows together is immediate and fierce. “Of course not.” He holds my gaze, blue eyes steady even in the dim light. “I just… it would have been nice, that’s all. Telling the kids a simpler story.”

I shake my head slowly, a soft smile tugging at my mouth. “Peeta. Our kids will know something better than that.”

“They will?”

“Yes.” I cup his face between my palms, thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. “They’ll know you threw me bread in the rain when I was eleven years old and starving. That you were already braver and kinder than almost anyone I’ve ever met. They’ll know you’re the reason I’m still here. That you didn’t just save me—you saved Prim and my mother too. All because of that bread.”

My voice roughens on the last words. “Nothing I ever say or do will be enough to tell you what that meant. What it still means.”

His smile is small and almost shy. He turns his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the two sleeping shapes across the compartment. I follow his gaze and feel something warm and fierce unfurl behind my ribs.

“You giving them life tells me how much it meant,” he says quietly. “I don’t say this enough… but thank you, Katniss. Not just for agreeing to have Willow and Emmer. For staying. For choosing me every day even after everything I did.”

“Peeta…” The word is barely a whisper. My thumbs stroke the soft skin just beneath his eyes.

“No, it’s okay.” His voice is steady, but I hear the old guilt threaded through it, the same quiet ache he’s carried for twenty years. “I’ve come to accept that the things I did—hurting you, the things I said—they’re in our past. But I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to feel that kind of fear from me again. I will make it up to you every single day I get.”

I lean in until our foreheads touch. “That wasn’t you, Peeta. That was something the Capitol forced into your head. And you fought your way back. You’ve been free of it ever since. I can’t imagine living a single day of this life without you in it.”

His breath catches, soft and warm against my lips. “Me neither.” The words come out rough with feeling, the same raw, open devotion that used to terrify the sixteen-year-old girl I once was. “I love you so much.”

But I’m not that girl anymore. The fear doesn’t swallow me the way it once did. I have grown around it, learned how to hold it without letting it steal the moment. A slow, certain smile spreads across my face.

“I love you so much too,” I whisper.

And then we both lean in at the same time.

The kiss is long and slow and deep—the kind that curls my toes and makes me tighten my arms around his neck, the kind that tastes like twenty years of choosing each other again and again while the night rushes past the window and our children sleep safely only a few feet away.

We stay by the window for a while after our kiss, the train rocking us gently as the dark countryside slips past in blurred shadows. The low hum of the rails fills the quiet compartment like a steady heartbeat, and the faint chill from the glass seeps through my skin until Peeta’s warmth pulls me back. Eventually we decide it’s time for bed.

He sits on the edge of the wide mattress to detach his prosthetic, the familiar click and soft clatter of it settling into its stand echoing in the small space. Then he climbs in first, holding the covers open with that quiet invitation I’ve come to know so well.

I slide in beside him, fitting myself against his side like I’ve done a thousand nights before. My head finds its place on his chest, right over the strong, even beat of his heart, and I hook one leg over his hip, drawing our bodies as close as they can get without becoming one. The sheets are cool at first, but they warm quickly against our skin, carrying the faint scent of the soap we used earlier and clean linen.

For a long moment we just breathe together. My fingers trace slow, invisible patterns across his chest, catching in the fine, soft hair that’s grown back thicker since the war. The old burn scars are still there—raised and pale against his skin—but they feel like part of him now, like the map of every road that led us here. The train sways beneath us, a gentle rhythm that lulls everything else into the background. Outside the window, the night is deep and endless, stars flickering faintly through the glass.

“Do you remember,” I whisper, my voice barely louder than the hum of the rails, “that night on the Victory Tour? When I woke up screaming from the nightmares… and you came into my room. The first night we ever slept in the same bed.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat, then his hand settles warm and heavy on my back, thumb stroking slow circles that send a shiver through me. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I remember every second of it. The way you shook. How I didn’t know if I should stay or go. But I stayed.”

I lift my chin, resting it on the back of my hand so I can see his face in the dim light from the small lamp above the window. His blue eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling like he’s watching the memory play across it.

The compartment feels smaller in the dark, our shared breaths the only sound besides the train’s steady song. “If you could go back and say one thing to that version of yourself… what would it be?”

Peeta thinks for a long moment, his fingers still moving absently on my back. Then his gaze drops to mine, gentle and sure. “I’d tell him to be patient. That what you needed most was a friend—not some lovesick boy desperate for you to feel the same way. I’d remind him the road ahead is going to be hell—longer and darker than he can imagine—but to keep going. Keep enduring. Because if he does, he’ll wake up one day in a life he only ever dared to dream about. A life with you. With our kids. With peace.”

A slow smile curves my lips. I reach up and brush a curl from his forehead, letting my fingers linger against the warmth of his skin. The memory of that scared girl on the train feels distant now, but not gone.

“And you?” he asks, voice warm against my hair. “What would you say to that scared girl on the train?”

I don’t have to think long. The words have lived in me for years, shaped by every battle we’ve won and every quiet night like this one. “I’d tell her that a life with Peeta Mellark is going to be terrifyingly wonderful. That the mountain we have to climb will feel endless some days, but we’ll reach the top together. And that it’s okay to love him—even when it scares her half to death—because he’s going to be the safest place she’s ever known. The one who stays when everything else falls apart.”

Peeta’s smile is soft and bright in the dark, the kind that still makes my chest tighten after all these years. He leans down and kisses my forehead, lingering there like a promise, his lips warm and steady against my skin.

“I’d go through every single thing the Capitol did to me again,” he murmurs, voice rough with feeling, “if it meant I got to keep this life with you. You’ve always been my endgame, Katniss. From the very beginning. Even when I didn’t know what that meant yet.”

The thought of him back in that cell—wires and water and pain—still twists something sharp in my stomach, even after twenty years. I press my lips to the faded shock mark just below his collarbone, the one that never quite faded, and whisper against his skin, tasting the salt and warmth there.

“You won’t ever have to. I vow it. I’d put an arrow through anyone who even thought about hurting you like that again. No one touches you. Not ever. Not while I’m breathing.”

He gives a small, tender smile and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, fingers brushing my cheek with that familiar gentleness. “Ever my fiercely protective wife,” he says, the grin in his voice warm and teasing. “Even with the name Mellark, even after two babies and helping run the bakery and keeping an entire district fed… you’re still my Katniss Everdeen. The girl who volunteered for her sister. The Mockingjay. My Mockingjay.”

I grin back, the old fire flickering happily in my chest, and push up just enough to kiss him—slow, deep, grateful. The taste of him is familiar and new all at once, like coming home after a long hunt. When we break apart I rest my forehead against his, our breaths mingling in the quiet space between us. The train carries us onward toward District 7, toward Johanna and the trees she promised to show Willow, but right now the world is just this bed, this warmth, these two bodies tangled together.

“You’ll always be mine,” he mumbles, the old words slipping out like a prayer, his voice already thick with sleep. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I answer without hesitation, the way I have every time he’s needed to hear it since the war. “Real, Peeta. And you’re mine.”

He nods once, the tension in his shoulders melting away completely. A long, contented sigh leaves him as his eyes drift shut. I lay my head back down on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath my ear, feeling the gentle sway of the train carrying us toward District 7.

My body relaxes inch by inch, heavy with exhaustion and love and the deep, bone-settling peace that only comes when every piece of my world is safe and close—our children sleeping just across the compartment, the man I love holding me like I’m something precious.

A small, content smile curves my lips as sleep pulls me under, wrapped completely in Peeta’s arms—the only place I’ve ever truly belonged. Even after all this time, we’re still choosing each other every single day and night. Real. Always real.

/

/

The first pale light of dawn filters through the narrow window, painting the compartment in soft grays and golds that shift with every gentle sway of the train. Emmer begins to fuss in his travel cot, no surprise there—he’s always been our early riser, his internal clock tuned to the quiet hours before the world fully wakes.

His whimpers quickly bloom into full, demanding cries that pull me straight out of sleep. I slip carefully from Peeta’s arms; he groans in sleepy protest, reaching for me even in his dreams, but I’m already moving across the small space in two quiet steps.

Emmer stands in the cot now, chubby hands gripping the top rail, face scrunched and tear-streaked as he calls for me with that insistent wail only an eighteen-month-old can manage. The train hums steadily beneath us, a low vibration that travels up through the floor and into my bare feet.

“It’s alright,” I whisper, scooping him up against my chest. His small body melts into mine at once, warm and solid, the familiar weight anchoring me as I carry him back to our bed. “Mommy’s here. I’ve got you.”

I settle against the pile of pillows, lifting the hem of my shirt and unclipping the front of my nursing bra. Emmer latches on with a grateful little sigh, his cries cutting off into the familiar, rhythmic suckling sounds that fill the quiet compartment. I brush the last of his tears from his flushed cheeks with my thumb, rocking us both gently while the train carries us onward.

His gray eyes flutter half-closed, one tiny hand resting on my skin, and I breathe in the sweet, milky scent of him—the same ashy-blonde curls tickling my arm that he inherited straight from his father.

Peeta stirs beside me, shifting under the covers. His eyes shoot open, widened with alarm for half a second before softening at the sight of me sitting there with our son. The tension in his shoulders melts away like it never existed, replaced by that quiet relief I’ve seen every morning for years now.

“Nightmare?” I murmur, keeping my voice low so I don’t disturb Willow, still sleeping soundly across the compartment in her narrow bed.

He nods once, rubbing a hand over his face. The motion draws my eye to the faint lines at the corners of his eyes—evidence of every laugh we’ve shared since the war ended.

“Did you want to talk about it?” I ask, my free hand already reaching for him.

“It was just the usual,” he responds with a sigh, and I know exactly what he means. He dreamt he lost me again—the same fear that still lingers in the shadows even after twenty years of peace.

I run a hand through his hair, the soft curls slipping between my fingers like they always have. He catches my wrist and presses a kiss to my knuckles, his lips warm against my skin. “I’m okay, though. You’re still here.”

“You’re stuck with me for life now,” I lightly tease, a grin tugging at my mouth as I watch Emmer’s tiny fingers flex against my skin.

“And hopefully long after too,” Peeta responds, his voice still rough with sleep but carrying that familiar warmth.

He reaches over and gives Emmer’s tiny foot a gentle shake. Emmer kicks in playful retaliation, still latched, and Peeta pretends to gobble his toes with a soft “nom nom nom,” making Emmer smile around me and stretch one hand toward his father. The sight tugs at something deep in my chest—these small, ordinary moments we fought so hard to keep.

“Peeta,” I scold quietly, though there’s no real heat in it. “Don’t rile him up while I’m feeding him.”

Peeta chuckles, low and warm, and kisses the sole of Emmer’s foot instead.

“Sorry, sorry.” His hand slides up to rest on my bare thigh, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles that ground me. “How are you feeling about seeing your mom? First time in person since the war.”

I shrug, watching Emmer’s eyes look up at me, his grin around my breast as he feeds. The knot in my stomach tightens a little at the thought of District 4, of Annie and Flynn and the woman who raised me before everything changed. We write letters and talk on the phone a few times a year, but seeing her face-to-face feels different—like standing in front of a mirror that shows every scar and every softening I’ve earned.

“I don’t know. I’m not the same girl she remembers. I’ve changed.”

“That’s fair,” Peeta says softly, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on my skin. “I think it’ll be good for both of you. Might even feel like healing.”

I hum in response, not quite ready to put more words to the knot in my stomach. Instead I tap the tip of Emmer’s nose with my pinky, earning another sleepy smile from him. Peeta’s voice brightens a little. “I’m excited to see Flynn again. Last time he was only Willow’s age—now he’s nineteen. That makes me feel ancient.”

I smirk, knocking my knee lightly against his hip. “Because you are old.”

He squeezes my thigh in retaliation, grinning. “Yet here you are, married to this old man.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile won’t stay hidden. If Peeta Mellark is an old man, then the years have been very kind. His body has softened slightly with age but remains broad and strong from years of kneading dough and chasing toddlers around the bakery. His ashy-blond curls are as wild as ever, and those blue eyes still catch the light like they did when we were sixteen and the world was ending.

He’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll happily claim him every single day.

“You’re thirty-seven,” I point out. “That’s hardly ancient.”

“True,” he says, that familiar mischievous spark lighting his face. “And my stamina is definitely not that of an old man. Gotta keep up with my young kids and my beautiful wife. Especially my wife.” He winks, the gesture sending a familiar heat through me even in the quiet morning.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you need to go sit in the corner like a naughty child?”

Peeta laughs outright, the sound warm and bright in the quiet compartment, and it fills the space like fresh bread rising on the counter back home. “No, I just love riling you up. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Oh, you do?” I arch a brow. “Well, I hope you’ll also love taking lonely showers, because if you keep that up, that’s exactly where you’re headed.”

He leans forward and presses a soft, apologetic kiss to my bare thigh, right where his hand rests. The brush of his lips sends a shiver up my spine. “Sorry,” he murmurs, fluttering those unfairly long lashes at me. “Forgive me?”

I let out a long, dramatic sigh, but my smile betrays me completely as I thread my fingers through his curls. Emmer continues nursing in my arms, and for now the world feels exactly as it should—warm, close, and ours. “Fine. You’re a real piece of work.”

He grins against my skin, unrepentant and perfect, and I know I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

Once Emmer finishes nursing, he pulls away with a satisfied little sigh, a thin string of milk still clinging to his chin. I wipe it away gently with the hem of my shirt, the fabric soft against his warm skin. Peeta takes him from me without a word, lifting our son high above his head the way Emmer loves best. Our boy squeals in pure delight, arms and legs kicking like he’s trying to fly, his ashy-blonde curls catching the morning light in messy tufts. 

Peeta brings him down and buries his face in Emmer’s neck, blowing loud, silly raspberries that set off a full-bellied laugh from our boy—so bright and unrestrained it fills the whole compartment. I watch them with a smile I can’t hold back, my chest feels warm and full. Peeta pulls back laughing too, then dives in again just to hear it happen a second time, Emmer’s gray eyes crinkling with pure glee as his little hands grab at his father’s curls.

We keep playing with Emmer until Willow finally stirs across the room. She shuffles out of her bed, hair a wild mess of dark matted curls loose down her back, and climbs straight into ours, squeezing her way between me and Peeta before laying her head on his shoulder. Without missing a beat she reaches out and tickles Emmer under the chin with one small finger. He giggles so hard he bends forward, catching his sister’s finger in his chubby fist, and Willow beams at his happiness, her blue eyes lighting up like they always do when she gets him to laugh. 

I rest a hand on Willow’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and lean in to press a kiss to the top of her tangled curls. Peeta shifts slightly to make room for her, his free arm draping over both our children as Emmer babbles something happy and nonsensical around the finger he’s still holding. My body relaxes into the pillows, the warmth of my family pressed close on either side, and for a long moment I just breathe it in.

When we’re all properly awake, we get the children ready for the day. I lay out Willow’s clothes on the edge of her bed—her favorite denim short overalls and the crisp white shirt with the wide round collar and short puffy sleeves, the one embroidered with a delicate vine of primroses along each side of the collar.

She dresses herself with fierce concentration, tongue poking out as she buttons the shirt and then buckles her brown sandals, one at a time. I watch her for a moment, struck by how independent she’s become at six. She used to need help with everything. Now she insists on doing it herself.

Emmer is another story. He squirms and kicks the entire time I dress him, little legs pumping like he’s trying to escape. I manage to get him into the soft tan linen button-up with its tiny brown buttons and matching shorts, then wrestle his feet into the small white shoes that still look brand new because he refuses to keep them on for more than five minutes at a time. The second I finish, he rolls onto his stomach and tries to crawl away, babbling happily to himself.

In the tiny bathroom, Peeta stands at the sink with shaving cream on his face. I hop up onto the counter the way I always do, taking the razor from his hand. He tilts his chin exactly where I need it, eyes never leaving mine. We do this in comfortable silence now, the same quiet ritual we fell into years ago when I was still too new to our relationship to simply say I wanted him close. Back then his steady gaze used to make my stomach twist with nerves. Now it feels like safety. Like trust. Like home.

“You’d think you enjoy this more than I enjoy watching you do it,” he says, grinning.

I roll my eyes and tilt his chin higher. “It’s relaxing for me.”

He squeezes my thighs gently, thumbs brushing slow circles against the fabric of my pants. “I’m not complaining. I love having you this close.”

I finish the last careful stroke, wipe the remaining cream from his face with a warm, damp towel, then lean in and kiss his smooth cheek. “I know.”

He catches my chin before I can pull away and kisses me properly—slow, lingering, the kind that still sends a warm flip through my stomach even after all these years. His hands come up to cup my jaw, holding me there as he steps between my legs. I wrap my arms around his neck without thinking, fingers sliding into the curls at the nape of his neck. For a moment the cramped bathroom, the low hum of the train, and everything outside this tiny space disappears.

It doesn’t last long.

Giggling breaks through the quiet. We pull apart and turn toward the doorway to find Willow standing there with both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Mommy and Daddy, you kiss so much!” she announces, delighted.

Emmer looks up at his sister from where he’s toddling in the narrow hallway, then lets out a string of happy, nonsensical sounds and claps his hands like he’s joining in on the joke. I feel my face heat as I gently push Peeta back and slide off the counter. He laughs under his breath, low and warm, the sound that always makes my chest loosen.

“We don’t get to kiss nearly enough with two shadows constantly following us around,” he says, reaching over to tickle Willow’s sides. She squeals and twists away, still giggling.

We brush our teeth side by side in the cramped space, Willow squeezed between us on her tiptoes, trying to reach the sink. Emmer toddles around our feet clutching his own tiny toothbrush, occasionally banging it against the doorframe or our legs like it’s a drum. The mirror reflects all four of us—messy hair, sleepy eyes, toothpaste foam, and the kind of ordinary chaos that once felt impossible. Peeta catches my gaze in the glass and smiles around his toothbrush, eyes crinkling at the corners. I smile back, small and real, the warmth in my chest settling deeper.

These mornings still feel like something I’m not entirely sure I deserve. But I’m learning to hold them anyway.

By the time we settle into a booth in the dining car for breakfast, the announcement chimes overhead that we’re only twenty minutes from District 7. We eat quickly—fresh fruit, warm rolls still soft from the oven, and scrambled eggs that Willow declares taste nothing like the ones I make at home, though she still cleans her plate with the same single-minded focus she gives everything else. I keep one eye on Emmer, who is more interested in smashing pieces of roll between his fingers than actually eating them.

The moment the train glides to a smooth stop, I grab the kids’ bag from under the table and follow Peeta toward the exit, Emmer balanced on my hip and Willow skipping ahead. The platform is busy at first, people streaming off in every direction with bags and laughter, but it clears quickly once the crowd disperses toward the station doors.

That’s when I spot her.

Johanna leans against the far wall near the steps, arms folded across her chest, dark hair cropped short and sharp as ever. She looks exactly like the woman who once dragged me through the jungle and the one I slowly, unexpectedly became friends with after she was rescued from the Capitol and spent those long months recovering in Thirteen—only calmer now. The hard edges have softened just enough with time and peace, though I doubt they’ll ever disappear completely.

“Well, if it isn’t the Mellarks and their little brood,” she drawls, that familiar smirk curling her lips as she pushes off the wall and walks over to meet us halfway.

“Aunt Johanna!” Willow squeals, breaking into a run and throwing herself at Johanna’s legs in a fierce hug.

Of all the surviving victors, Johanna is the one we see most since having the kids. She shows up in Twelve whenever the ghosts in Seven get too loud for her to handle alone, and we always leave the door unlocked for her. We manage at least one visit a year, sometimes two, but this is the first time we’ve come to her instead. It feels strange being on her ground for once.

“There’s my mini-Peeta,” Johanna says, rubbing Willow’s back with surprising gentleness before she straightens. Her eyes flick over to me and Peeta, sharp and assessing the way they always are.

Peeta steps forward and pulls her into a quick, easy hug. “Good to see you, Jo.”

“You too, Lover Boy,” she fires back without hesitation.

Peeta’s ears turn pink, just like they always do when she uses that nickname. She knows exactly how much it still irritates him, but that’s never stopped her. She still calls me brainless half the time too. I’ve learned the only way to survive Johanna Mason is to give her as little reaction as possible.

She turns her attention to me next, gaze dropping without subtlety. “Your boobs look huge.”

I scowl and swat her hand away as she pokes them. “I had a baby eighteen months ago who still nurses, Johanna. What did you expect?”

She snorts, clearly amused. “I bet Peeta’s just thrilled he has to share the goods.” She reaches over and pinches Emmer’s chubby thigh where he sits on my hip. He immediately buries his face in my neck, one small fist clutching my shirt, shy and overwhelmed by the sudden attention.

“Huh. Looks like you passed on your sparkling social skills to him too,” Johanna observes, tilting her head. “Well, there’s not much to see around here, but it’s home. Come on.”

She turns toward the platform steps without waiting for an answer. Willow skips ahead and slips her small hand into Johanna’s without a second thought, the two of them leading the way like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Peeta falls into step beside me, his arm brushing mine as we walk.

“This is going to be interesting,” he murmurs against my temple, voice low enough that only I can hear.

I let out a breathy laugh, shifting Emmer higher on my hip as his warm weight presses against my side. “Definitely.”

The air outside the station smells different here—cleaner, sharper, laced with the scent of pine and damp earth from the thick forests that press in close around the edges of the district. Johanna’s already pointing something out to Willow up ahead, her voice carrying back to us in that dry, no-nonsense tone. Emmer lifts his head just enough to peek at the passing trees, still tucked safely against my chest.

I glance at Peeta and find him already watching me, that quiet, knowing look in his eyes—the one that says he sees every layer beneath my easy laugh. I reach for his hand without thinking, threading our fingers together as we follow Johanna and Willow into the trees.

District 7 feels like stepping into a living forest. There are no gleaming skyscrapers or sterile concrete walls here—just massive, ancient trees standing guard around the mills and scattered houses. Their trunks are wider than any I’ve ever seen in Twelve, bark rough and deeply grooved like the hands of old men, branches stretching so high they seem to hold up the sky itself. Sunlight filters through the canopy in shifting patches, dappling the gravel path ahead of us in gold and shadow.

The air smells sharp and clean, thick with pine resin and the fresh scent of cut wood. Gravel crunches under our shoes with every step, and farther ahead, heavy wooden tracks carry rumbling trucks loaded with long, pale logs. Their engines growl low and steady, a sound that feels honest rather than threatening.

“Mommy, the trees are so big!” Willow bursts out, eyes wide with pure wonder as she spins in a slow circle, braids swinging.

I laugh softly and reach down to squeeze her hand. “Exactly what I was thinking, little bird.”

Johanna walks ahead with that familiar loose stride, hands shoved in her pockets. “Our most common ones are Douglas firs and western red cedars,” she says, tilting her chin toward the towering trunks. “Tall bastards, aren’t they? Been here longer than Panem has.”

Willow immediately cranes her neck to stare up at the lowest branches. “Can I climb them?”

Johanna grins, sharp and teasing. “Probably not today. They’re very tall, very high, and I’m pretty sure your mom and dad would murder me if I let you shimmy up one and break your neck on my watch.”

Willow lets out the most dramatic sigh I’ve heard all week. “That’s true. Mommy only lets me climb if she’s right there spotting me the whole time.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for not wanting my daughter to fall thirty feet and snap her spine,” I say dryly.

“Calm down, Brainless,” Johanna shoots back, rolling her eyes. “You should ease up a little. Kids learn by earning a few scrapes and bruises. Builds character.”

I scowl at her. “She’ll earn more than scrapes and bruises falling out of one of these monsters, Johanna.”

She just snorts and keeps walking, but there’s no real bite in it. We’ve had this argument a dozen times before. She knows I won’t budge when it comes to the kids’ safety.

Emmer starts wiggling on my hip, little legs kicking with restless energy, so I set him down carefully on the gravel path. Peeta takes one of his chubby hands while I take the other, and we swing him gently between us the way we do at home. Every time his feet leave the ground he lets out a bright, bubbling laugh that echoes off the trees. The sound settles something warm and steady in my chest.

I glance up and catch Johanna looking back over her shoulder at us. There’s a smile on her face I don’t think I’ve ever seen before—soft at the edges, almost wistful. Happy, but threaded through with something quieter. Something that looks a little like longing. She turns away the moment she notices me watching, shoulders straightening as she points out another towering cedar to Willow.

My thoughts drift as we walk, the gravel crunching beneath our feet and Emmer’s laughter still ringing in the air between us. Johanna has been alone since the end of the rebellion. As far as Peeta and I know, we’re the only ones she sees on any kind of regular basis, and Annie too, though I think it’s hard for her to be around Flynn. He looks so much like Finnick it must stir up ghosts she’d rather keep buried.

Annie has Flynn and my mother. Peeta and I have each other and our children. Haymitch has us, and somehow Willow has decided he’s her favorite person in the world, which still baffles me most days. But Johanna has no one here in Seven to check in on her. We try to call when we can, but between the bakery and two young children it’s not as often as I’d like.

I just want to know she’s okay. It’s strange, really—there was a time I wouldn’t have given a damn what happened to her. Back then I was seventeen and thrown into the Games again, so desperate to keep Peeta alive that I barely had room in my head for anything else. Playing nice wasn’t exactly high on my list of priorities.

Still, it would be nice to know she had someone looking out for her. Someone who isn’t hundreds of miles away.

Johanna gives us a quick tour of one of the working mills first. The moment we step inside, the air turns thick with the sweet, dusty scent of sawdust and fresh pulp. Sunlight slants through high windows in dusty beams, catching on floating particles that drift like slow snow.

The machinery hums and clanks around us, a constant low roar punctuated by the sharp whine of blades slicing through wood. Johanna moves through the space with easy familiarity, explaining that this is what she does to occupy her time now—something steady, something that keeps her hands busy and her mind from wandering too far into the past.

She shows Willow how the giant logs are stripped of their bark, fed into massive saws that slice them into thin, even sheets, and then pressed and dried into paper and cardboard. My daughter watches with rapt attention at first, eyes wide as she follows the process from one station to the next. Then she grows quiet. Her small brow furrows, lips pressing into a worried line.

“So… we have to cut down the trees to make paper for drawing?” she asks, voice small.

The worry in her tone makes my heart squeeze tight—this child who already cares so deeply about the woods, just like I did at her age. Johanna crouches down so she’s at Willow’s level, resting one forearm on her knee.

“Yeah, kid. But every tree we cut, we plant another in its place. Same kind, same spot when we can. If we just kept chopping without replanting, we’d run out eventually. That’s why we don’t.” She gives Willow a small, crooked smile. “The forest stays. We just borrow from it.”

Willow studies her face for a long moment, then nods, satisfied. Under Johanna’s careful supervision, she gets to work one of the smaller machines—pressing a button that feeds a sheet of fresh pulp through a roller while Johanna keeps a steady hand nearby, guiding her. Willow’s tongue pokes out in concentration, the same way it does when she buttons her own clothes or tries to draw something complicated. The sight of her there, small and serious in the middle of all that machinery, makes something warm and fierce bloom in my chest.

I feel the stares before I see them. A few workers glance our way, then lean in to whisper to each other. I catch the shape of the word Mockingjay on someone’s lips and look away. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. In the beginning it used to bother the hell out of me—the way people still looked at me like I was something they were owed, like my face belonged to them because of what I did. Now I mostly let it roll off. But it seems Johanna hasn’t.

“Hey, busybodies!” she barks suddenly, voice cutting sharp across the mill floor. “Get back to work! We ain’t at the Capitol Zoo!”

The workers snap their heads down and scramble back to their stations. Johanna doesn’t even look at me as she leads us toward the exit, but I catch the tight set of her shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say quietly once we’re outside again, the fresh pine air hitting my lungs like a relief.

She shrugs, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Some people still think they’re entitled to stare. Like we owe them something just because we survived. It’s irritating as hell.”

We walk a little farther down the gravel path, Willow skipping ahead again now that the heavy moment has passed. She spins around to walk backward so she can face us, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

“Why do they look at us like that?” she asks innocently.

My stomach drops. Before I can figure out how to answer without lying or scaring her, Johanna cuts in.

“Eh, don’t worry about it, kid. All you need to worry about is when your next pastry’s coming.” She winks, and Willow giggles, the question already forgotten.

“Can you bake me some cupcakes when we get home, Daddy?” she asks, bouncing on her toes.

Peeta chuckles, the sound low and warm. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

She beams and launches herself at him. He catches her easily, swinging her up into his arms and spinning her in a slow circle right there on the path. Her laughter rings out bright and clear, braids flying, and Peeta’s smile—wide and boyish and completely unguarded—makes my chest ache in the best way.

“Damn,” Johanna snorts beside me. “Everdeen girls really do have a hold on him.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the small smile that tugs at my mouth as I watch them. Two peas in a pod, those two. Peeta is the best father Willow could have asked for—patient and steady and endlessly willing to drop everything to make her feel loved and safe. Most days I still can’t believe I get to witness it. That this is our life now. That the boy who once threw me bread in the rain gets to spin our daughter in the sunlight while I stand here, whole and breathing, watching them both.

Johanna leads us to the Victor’s Village. It’s a little bigger than the one in Twelve, and far wilder. Moss climbs the stone walls of the large houses, softening their edges, and the whole place is ringed by the same towering trees that seem to guard every inch of this district. Their shade keeps everything cool and green even in the summer heat. Only a handful of people still live here, including Johanna. Most of the mansions sit empty, windows dark, gardens gone half-wild with tall grass and climbing vines.

It feels quieter than home. In our Village, neighbors wave from porches and Haymitch’s geese regularly escape to terrorize the street. When the houses went up for sale after the war, the space slowly grew into something like a real community.

I had my reservations at first—Haymitch did too—but Peeta helped us both adjust. Now I quite enjoy it. There are several children Willow’s age who live nearby and go to school with her, and they’re always outside playing in the meadow by our house. I’ve even made a few quiet friendships with some of the other mothers. No one asks about the Games or being the Mockingjay. They ask when Peeta’s next baking frenzy will be, or how we’re coping with the children growing up so fast.

It’s nice. So it makes me a little sad to see that the few people who do live here seem to shut themselves away.

We settle into Johanna’s house, which is surprisingly tidy—floors swept, surfaces clear. The sharp edges of the furniture and the lack of soft corners still make it clear this place wasn’t built for small children. We head straight out to her gated backyard, a wide stretch of grass dappled with sunlight filtering through the canopy above. Wildflowers push up through the green in scattered bursts of color.

Peeta and I spread out the toys we brought while Johanna watches from the wooden steps, forearms resting on her thighs, that half-smile on her face. Emmer toddles across the grass with serious concentration, and Willow immediately starts arranging blocks into lopsided towers that keep toppling over.

I drop down onto the warm steps beside Johanna, the summer sun soaking into my skin. The scent of pine and sun-warmed earth rises around us. A little ways ahead, Peeta walks with Emmer clinging to his leg while he and Willow squat low, heads bent close together as they examine something in the grass—probably a beetle or a particularly interesting rock. The late-morning light catches in Peeta’s curls and turns them gold.

“He’s a good dad to those kids, huh?” Johanna says quietly, almost to herself.

I keep my eyes on them as they start picking dandelions. “The best,” I agree.

She’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “Don’t you think it’s funny?”

I turn to look at her. “What’s funny?”

“That the old bastard tried so hard to make sure you never got this.” Her grin is sharp, but her eyes are softer than usual when she says Snow’s name.

Johanna is one of the only people who can bring him up so casually. With anyone else I’d shut it down fast, but she was there. She saw the worst of what they did to Peeta. She heard the real screams I can only imagine in my own nightmares. So I let the words sit between us.

“Yeah,” I say, watching Peeta lift Emmer onto his shoulders. “Screw him.”

Johanna snorts. “How does he handle the after-effects these days?”

The question is careful. She knows it’s a tender spot. Peeta still has flashbacks from the hijacking—sudden, disorienting moments where his eyes go distant and his hands shake. They’re never violent anymore, and they’ve grown rarer over the years, but even a minute of it feels endless to him.

He still wakes some nights in a cold sweat, remembering the electroshock, the whips, the burns, the water. I’m always there—singing the old meadow song until his breathing evens out, or just holding him tight against my chest and whispering that he’s safe, that he’s home, that he’s mine.

He still carries the guilt of how he treated me too. We almost never fight, but in the early days of our relationship, when he would raise his voice—even slightly—I would wince and curl into myself without meaning to. He would look so hurt, then shut himself away for days.

It used to take me weeks to get him to talk about anything more than his baking, my hunting, and the weather. The trauma of it has gotten better for me over time, but I can tell he hasn’t forgiven himself. I don’t really think he ever will. Even now, if he gets a little too rough during sex and leaves a faint bruise on my hip or thigh, or if his temper flares in one of our rare arguments, he shuts down completely.

He apologizes over and over, handles me like I’m made of Capitol glass for days afterward until I have to pull him close and remind him he has nothing to be sorry for. That he’s still my Peeta. That his hands around my neck in that hospital in Thirteen were never really his.

“He handles it as well as someone like him can,” I say honestly. “Bad days still come—days where he barely smiles, barely talks—but they’re infrequent now. He still blames himself for almost killing me twice, though.”

“Better than me, I bet,” Johanna mutters, yanking up a handful of grass and letting it scatter in the breeze. “I still can’t stand the sound of rain on the roof.”

She glances at me, then away again. “You’re good for him, you know. Not all of us were lucky enough to have someone who could pull us out of that darkness.”

The ache of sympathy hits me hard. 

“Have you ever thought about moving to Twelve?” I ask gently. “You could be close to us. We’d make room. You wouldn’t have to be on your own.”

Johanna smirks, but there’s something almost sad behind it. “You really think having me and Haymitch around your kids at the same time is a good idea? I’d have that girl pranking the entire district within a week.”

I laugh despite myself. “True. But you’d be around people who understand.”

She waves a hand, brushing it off. “Don’t go all soft on me now, Brainless. I’m fine on my own. I’ve coped this long, I can keep coping. Besides, no sane person will put up with the shit I have to deal with in my fucked-up head.”

Before I can argue, Willow comes running over, cheeks flushed, hands full of bright yellow dandelions. “For you, Mommy!” she says proudly, thrusting them toward me.

“Thank you, darling,” I say, taking the slightly crushed bouquet and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I decorated Emmer with them too!” she announces.

Sure enough, her brother toddles over a moment later, his ashy curls now sprouting a dozen fluffy dandelions like a crooked little crown. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing too hard.

“A true nature baby,” Peeta chuckles, dropping down on the step beside me and pulling Willow onto his lap. Emmer immediately launches himself into mine, and I catch him, kissing the top of his head while the flowers tickle my nose.

I glance over at Johanna. She’s watching us with a small, quiet smile—the kind she rarely lets anyone see. And in that moment I realize this is what helps her cope: these stolen afternoons, these ordinary, sunlit memories she can pull out on her darkest nights. Proof that some of us really did make it. That the arena didn’t win after all.

The trees rustle overhead, warm wind brushing through the yard and carrying the faint scent of pine and wildflowers. For a little while the five of us simply exist in the same gentle patch of peace we all fought so hard to earn.

Johanna walks us back toward the station as the afternoon light begins to slant golden through the towering trees. Our short visit already feels too brief, the kind of afternoon that ends before you’re ready for it to.

Emmer has decided he is utterly in love with her by now. He reaches for her with both chubby arms the second she offers her hands, and she swings him up without hesitation, tossing him gently into the air and catching him again as we walk. His delighted squeals echo off the massive trunks, pure joy ringing through the forest in bright, unrestrained bursts. Every time she throws him a little higher my stomach twists with that familiar mother-anxiety—a sharp, instinctive reminder that the old protective instincts still live deep in my bones.

“Easy, Johanna,” I mutter when one toss sends him nearly brushing the lowest branch.

She just laughs, low and rough. “Relax, Brainless. I’ve got him. Kid’s built like his dad—solid.”

By the time we reach the station, people are already filing onto the platform. The train hums patiently on the tracks, its doors open and waiting. Johanna hands Emmer back to me carefully, and his small hands still clutch at her shirt until the very last second before he settles against my hip with a soft, disappointed little sound. She drops into a crouch in front of Willow, bringing herself eye-level with our daughter.

“You keep being exactly who you are, Kid,” she says, that trademark grin softening at the edges. “Don’t let anyone dull that fire.”

Willow nods solemnly, as if she has just been given the most important instruction of her life, then throws her arms around Johanna’s neck in a fierce hug. Johanna rubs her back with one hand and presses a quick kiss to her temple before standing again. When she turns to Peeta and me, her voice is quieter than usual, the sarcasm dialed back just enough that I can hear everything she isn’t saying.

“Thanks for coming all this way.”

Peeta smiles, warm and easy, the way he always does when someone needs it most. “No need to thank us. The kids loved every second. So did we.”

“Yeah… your kids are pretty great,” Johanna says, glancing between Willow and Emmer with something almost wistful in her eyes. “You two did good. Really good.”

I feel my throat tighten. I run a hand over the top of Willow’s head, smoothing her dark braids where they rest against her back. “Come visit us whenever you need to,” I tell her. “Door’s always open. Even when you’re busy teaching our six-year-old how to build slingshots.”

Johanna snorts, the familiar sharp sound I’ve come to love. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I take my role as favorite aunt very seriously. Someone’s gotta teach her the important things in life—like perfect aim and how to swear properly when no one’s listening.”

I scowl, but there’s no real heat behind it. “She already asked for a slingshot for her birthday next year. Thanks for that.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear friend,” Johanna replies, batting her lashes with mock sweetness.

I shake my head, fighting a smile, and we share one last look—the kind that carries years of shared survival, of nights we don’t talk about, of a bond forged in blood and fire and somehow still standing. Peeta gives her a quick, tight hug, murmuring something low I don’t catch but that makes her smirk. Willow gives her one final hug, and Emmer rewards her with a wide grin and a giggle when she tickles under his chin one last time.

We give a final wave as we step onto the train. The doors hiss shut behind us, and the platform slides away as we head back to our compartment to gather our scattered things.

“Next stop, District 4,” Peeta says softly once we’re alone again.

I nod, but the words sit heavy in my chest. The easy warmth of the morning with Johanna is already fading, replaced by a low, fluttering nervousness that grows with every mile the train carries us west. District 4 means my mother. It means seeing her face-to-face for the first time since the war ended, since everything shattered and slowly rebuilt itself into this quieter life we now live.

We’ve stayed in contact over the years—letters, the occasional call when the connection holds—but this is different. I’m not the broken, angry girl she last saw. I’m a wife now. A mother of two. And I don’t know if the woman I’ve become will fit into the space she still holds for the daughter she lost to the Games and the rebellion.

Peeta’s hand finds mine, warm and steady, his thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly what this visit means to me, the mix of hope and fear tangled so tightly I can barely tell them apart. I lean into his side, letting his solid presence anchor me while the train picks up speed and the deep green of District 7 begins to give way to open fields and the first distant shimmer of coastline on the horizon.

Whatever waits for us in Four—awkward silences, careful conversations, maybe even healing—I won’t face it alone.

Not anymore.

As the train continues its journey toward District 4, the view outside passes in a quiet blur of coastline and open sea. It’s only a couple of hours from the deep green of Seven, but the landscape has already changed completely. By the time we pull into the station, the afternoon sun is bright and warm, and the air carries the sharp, salty tang of the ocean that I remember from long ago. The moment the doors open, that familiar sea breeze slips in and wraps around us.

I keep Emmer safely strapped into the sturdy travel stroller so we don’t have to juggle him on the busy platform. The handles are looped with the kids’ bags, a change of clothes, snacks, and the soft blanket he still refuses to sleep without. Willow walks between Peeta and me, one small hand in each of ours, her dark braids swinging as she tries to peer ahead at everything at once.

The second we step off the train and the warm sea air hits my face, I see her.

My mother.

She’s waiting near the edge of the platform, hands clasped tightly in front of her, and the years show in every quiet line of her. She’s in her sixties now. The once-bright blond hair I remember is woven into a single long braid that has gone soft and silvery-white at the temples. The lines around her eyes and mouth have deepened, but she’s still beautiful in that quiet, steady way she always was before everything broke—tall and graceful in a simple knee-length gray dress that flutters gently in the wind.

She looks like someone who has finally found a kind of peace here by the sea. The sight of her sends a complicated twist through my chest: love, guilt, the old ache of everything we lost, and the strange, stubborn distance that still sits between us after all these years.

“Katniss!” Her face lights up the moment she spots us. She starts forward, arms already half-open, and I’m quietly grateful for the stroller between us. It gives me an excuse to stay rooted in place, one hand resting on the handle. She must realize what I’m doing, because her smile falters just a little and her arms drop slowly back to her sides.

“Hi, Mom,” I manage, my smile tight and careful.

She turns to Peeta next, and her expression softens even more. “Peeta, it’s so wonderful to see you again.”

Unlike me, Peeta steps around the stroller without hesitation and pulls her into a warm, easy hug. “Hello, Asterid. It’s great to see you too. You look well.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling as they separate.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how loudly my heart is beating. “Um… Mom, this is our daughter, Willow, and our son, Emmer.”

I rest a gentle hand on Willow’s back. She’s half-hidden behind my leg now, peeking out with wide blue eyes, suddenly shy in a way she rarely is.

My mother kneels a little so she’s closer to Willow’s height. “It’s very nice to meet you, Willow. Your hair is beautiful—those braids are very pretty. You know, your mommy wore her hair like that when she was your age. Every single day.”

“My mommy did them for me this morning,” Willow mumbles, pressing closer to my side.

“Well, your mommy has always been very talented,” my mother says softly. Her gaze flicks to me for a brief, meaningful second before she stands and turns toward the stroller.

Emmer is sitting there with two fingers in his mouth, watching her with cautious gray eyes. She bends over carefully and tries to tickle his belly with one gentle finger. He furrows his little brows and leans away from her touch, clearly unimpressed.

I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Gosh, the world is going to have fun with him. Haymitch used to always say the world was doomed if we ever got a boy version of me. I disagree. I know Emmer will be capable of great things. If he’s cautious, then he’s less likely to get hurt—and that feels like a gift after everything we lived through.

My mother straightens, brushing her hands down her dress with a small, understanding smile. “Right. Shall we go? Annie’s expecting us, but we can take our time getting there.”

Peeta nods, already reaching for the heavier bag on the stroller. Willow tugs on his sleeve, arms stretched up. “Daddy, up please?”

He chuckles and scoops her onto his hip like she weighs nothing at all. “Of course, little bird.”

It makes me smile. Even though he’s already carrying both of our bags (at his own insistence), he still makes sure he’s there for our girl. Just seeing him like this—steady and warm and completely present—can so easily stir that old hunger inside me. I have to scold myself for it. I love both of our children more than I ever thought possible, and I would lay my life down for them without hesitation… but I am done being pregnant. Done with the labor. That part of our story is finished.

Still, it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the view.

We follow my mother down the wide stone ramp and onto the path that leads away from the station. Fine white sand has blown across the stones from the nearby beach, crunching softly under our shoes and glittering like crushed glass in the bright afternoon light.

The air here is warmer, heavier, thick with salt and the distant, lonely cry of gulls. To our left the harbor opens up, fishing boats bobbing gently on the turquoise water, their hulls painted in cheerful reds, yellows, and deep blues that stand out sharp against the sea. The faint scent of fresh seafood and drying seaweed drifts up from the docks, mixed with something sweeter—like sun-warmed wood and the clean mineral smell of the ocean itself.

Peeta walks close beside me, Willow balanced easily on his hip. His free arm stays wrapped around my waist, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back. Every few steps he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the side of my neck, just below my ear, the way he always does when he can feel me going quiet.

My mother glances back at us now and then, her expression soft but careful, like she’s testing how much weight the moment can hold. I don’t blame her. I’m not sure I know how to do this either—how to be her daughter again after everything that happened, after all the years of careful letters and short phone calls that never quite closed the distance.

This visit is going to be complicated. Healing, maybe. Awkward and careful in places. But as Emmer reaches out from the stroller to point a chubby finger at a gull wheeling overhead, and Willow rests her head on Peeta’s shoulder, murmuring something soft about the boats, I feel the familiar steadiness settle in my chest. Whatever comes next, I’m not facing it alone.

The further we walk from the station and into the heart of District 4, the world opens wider. Water surrounds everything here—bright turquoise stretching out in every direction, waves rolling gently onto long stretches of pale sand that look almost white under the sun.

The town itself feels low and open, mostly single-story shops painted in soft blues and whites, their wide wooden porches dusted with the same fine sand that drifts in from the beach like nature’s own welcome mat. People move barefoot or in simple sandals, their clothes light and flowing—loose linen tunics, rolled-up trousers, bright wraps that catch the breeze and flutter like sails.

Children dart between the market stalls piled high with gleaming silver fish, still-kicking crabs, and oysters that glisten wet and dark in their shells. They laugh as they pause to snatch up a perfect spiral shell or a piece of sea glass from the ground, most of them already in swim clothes or thin, airy outfits that look like they were made for running straight into the waves the second their parents look away.

It’s nothing like the District 4 I glimpsed years ago during the Victory Tour. Back then the people had smiled for the cameras, but their eyes were hollow, their shoulders tight with the weight of knowing another reaping was always coming. Now… now they look free. Truly free. The laughter feels real. The children run without glancing over their shoulders. The war took so much, but it gave this back to them, and the sight of it settles something warm and aching deep in my chest.

Peeta’s steps slow as we pass a stall heavy with oysters. He shifts Willow higher on his hip and tips his head toward the open trays. “Hey, look at this, Willow.”

Willow pulls a face and recoils against his shoulder, scrunching her nose. “They look yucky.”

“What?” Peeta laughs, the sound warm and bright. “They’re delicious. I haven’t had an oyster in years.”

It’s true. The last time he would have tasted one was on the Victory Tour, when everything was still performance and cameras and carefully staged smiles. The memory flickers through me—the forced elegance of those old train dinners, the way even food had felt like another kind of weapon.

“You have such a strange food palate,” I say as we keep walking, the sand still crunching under our feet.

Peeta just grins at me, that crooked, boyish one that still makes my stomach flip after all these years. “What can I say? It’s the artist in me.”

My mother chuckles softly ahead of us. I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, well the artist in you is going to be the reason I refuse to kiss you after you eat those things,” I warn him.

Peeta gasps in perfect mock outrage, one hand flying to his chest while he still holds Willow steady. “Is that a threat? It’s not fair—you always use that kind of threat against me. Sometimes it’s a curse being so devoted to you.”

“Peeta,” I scowl, though the corners of my mouth are already fighting a smile, “I swear, the second we get to the beach I’m pushing you into the water.”

His grin only widens, blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Not if I do it first.”

District 4’s Victor’s Village sits right at the edge of the beach, a gentle semi-circle of elegant mansions half-hidden among tall, swaying palm trees. The sand begins only a few steps behind the last house, soft and pale and endless. When we reach it I stop without meaning to, the stroller wheels sinking slightly into the warm sand at the path’s edge.

The ocean spreads out before us, calm and endless, each wave sighing as it kisses the shore and pulls back again in a slow, steady rhythm. Sunlight sparkles across the turquoise water like scattered diamonds, so bright it almost hurts to look at. It’s so beautiful it steals the breath from my lungs for a moment.

Finnick grew up here, I think. He learned to swim in these same waves, laughed on this exact stretch of sand, long before the Capitol stole him and twisted him into something they could sell. He deserved to grow old by this sea. He deserved to raise his son in these waters, to watch Flynn learn to dive and surf and laugh without the shadow of the Games hanging over them both. The thought still stings, but it’s softer now—more memory than raw wound. Twenty years have worn the sharpest edges down into something I can carry without bleeding.

“You coming, Katniss?” Peeta’s voice pulls me back gently. He’s a few steps ahead already, smiling at me with that quiet, knowing look that still makes my heart skip even after all this time.

“Yeah,” I say, blinking the haze away. I push the stroller forward again, following my mother as she turns left toward one of the larger mansions closest to the water. Its pale walls almost glow in the late-afternoon light, and the wide front porch is scattered with smooth shells and pieces of sea glass that catch the sun. I unstrap Emmer and lift him onto my hip; he immediately tucks his face into the curve of my neck, small fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt the way he always does when the world feels a little too big.

Peeta sets Willow down carefully so he can carry the empty stroller up the front steps and through the wide doorway. We leave it just inside by the door as my mother leads us deeper into the house.

Inside, the air smells of salt and fresh linen and something faintly sweet—like dried seaweed and sun-warmed wood. Sunlight pours through tall windows that face the sea, filling every room with shifting gold and blue light. Soft white curtains drift in the constant breeze, and the wooden floors are smooth and cool under our shoes.

As we walk through the open living space we find Annie sitting in a deep armchair near the wide doors that lead out to the back porch. Her long, flowing dress—the exact soft green of sea foam—pools around her ankles. She’s turning a small, smooth shell over and over in her hands, thumb tracing its ridges in a slow, absent rhythm, eyes distant in that dreamy way she still slips into sometimes. My mother walks over and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Annie, look who’s here.”

Annie blinks, coming back to us slowly, and her face softens into a genuine, warm smile the moment she sees us. “Katniss. Peeta.”

“Hi, Annie,” I say, stepping farther into the room. Emmer peers at her curiously from my hip, grey eyes wide and solemn. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she answers, rising with that graceful, slightly floating movement that always makes her seem like she’s still half in the water. “Better than any of us have any right to be, really.”

I offer her a small smile in return. The words settle something quiet in my chest. “That’s good to hear. Where’s Flynn?”

“Down at the beach for a swim,” she says, glancing toward the open doors where the soft crash of waves drifts in on the breeze. “He practically lives in the water these days. I think he’d grow gills if he could.”

“Can we go too, Mommy?” Willow asks instantly, eyes lighting up as she tugs gently on my shirt. Her dark braids swing with the movement, and she’s already bouncing on her toes.

I smooth a hand over those braids, feeling the familiar silk of them under my palm. “If you want to, sweetheart. We just need to get settled first and say hello properly.”

Willow lets out a happy little squeal that makes Emmer giggle against my neck, the sound bright and pure. Annie’s smile widens, soft and warm, as she gestures toward the staircase at the far end of the room. “Come on, then. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

We follow her upstairs, the wooden steps worn smooth by years of bare feet and ocean air. Peeta holds Willow’s hand behind me, his free hand resting lightly at the small of my back the whole way up—steady, warm, present.

My mother walks beside Annie, the two of them exchanging quiet words I can’t quite catch, their voices low and familiar in the way of people who have shared a house for a long time. The house feels lived-in and peaceful: shelves lined with carefully arranged shells and pieces of sea glass that catch the light like tiny jewels, windows thrown open in every room so the sea breeze can move freely through the halls, carrying the soft scent of salt and distant flowers.

At the top of the stairs Annie pushes open the door to a bright guest room that looks straight out over the water. The view is beautiful—almost enough to rival the woods back home. Tall windows frame the endless turquoise stretch of ocean, and the soft white curtains billow gently in the constant breeze.

The bed is wide and piled with light linen, a low wooden dresser stands against one wall, and a small balcony door stands open, letting in the full sound of the waves sighing against the sand just below. Sunlight pools on the floorboards in warm rectangles, and for a moment I just stand there, Emmer solid and warm against my hip, breathing in the clean salt air and the quiet peace of this place.

Twenty years ago I never would have believed I could stand in a room like this and feel something close to safe. Now the feeling settles deep in my bones, soft and steady, like the tide itself.

Peeta and I change the children into their swimming clothes before we head out. Willow wears her favorite one-piece, a soft woven cotton that Effie sent from the Capitol for her sixth birthday. The package had also held a stack of ridiculously ruffled dresses in every shade of pink and purple imaginable, but my daughter had squealed with pure happiness at every single gift, so I couldn’t roll my eyes too hard.

The swimsuit itself is mostly white, scattered with delicate green leaves that spill across the front and back like something grown wild. Emmer goes into tiny navy-blue swim shorts that match the ones Peeta pulls on—simple cotton, soft and familiar. I slip into a plain black swimsuit and throw a light cover-up over it, the fabric cool and breezy against my skin. We gather towels, a couple of little sand buckets, and head out with Mom and Annie for the short walk down to the beach.

The moment we reach the shore, Flynn is walking out of the water, droplets sliding down his tanned skin and catching the late-afternoon light. I have to take a slow, steadying breath. He looks so much like Finnick it almost knocks the air out of me—Annie’s soft brown hair, but everything else is pure Finnick Odair: the same easy, confident stride, the same broad shoulders that once filled a Capitol parade uniform, and those deep green eyes that seem to carry the whole ocean inside them.

I wonder, not for the first time, how Annie manages it—watching her son grow into the living image of the man she lost. But then I see the way she looks at him, and I understand. She does it the same way I would if I had to raise Emmer without Peeta. Flynn is the best part of Finnick that he left behind, the living proof that something good and bright survived. I can see it clearly now: if it weren’t for this boy, Annie would be forever lost. She might not even be standing here today.

Flynn spots us and breaks into a grin that hits me like a memory—cocky and warm, exactly the way his father used to smile when he first approached me before the tribute parade all those years ago, asking about my secrets with that easy charm that always made me want to roll my eyes and smile at the same time.

He walks straight to Annie first and kisses her cheek. “Hi, Mama.”

Annie smiles, soft and a little distant, and rubs a gentle circle on his back. Then he turns to us, that grin widening. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Flynn,” Peeta says warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re so grown up now. I still remember when you barely came up to my knee.”

Flynn shrugs, a little embarrassed but clearly pleased. “Just a little. Time moves fast, I guess.”

Annie’s eyes sparkle with quiet pride. “Would you believe he has himself a sweetheart now? Cora.”

Flynn’s tan cheeks flush a light pink and he rubs the back of his neck. “Mom…”

Peeta chuckles, low and fond. “Don’t be embarrassed. She must be pretty great if she’s caught your eye.”

“Yeah,” Flynn admits, the grin returning full-force. “She really is.”

Willow has run out of patience long before the conversation can continue. The water is only steps away, sparkling and calling to her, and she starts tugging hard on Peeta’s hand. “Daaaaddy, I wanna swim!”

If Effie were here she would probably faint at Willow’s complete lack of manners. Effie has always been impressed by how polite my daughter usually is—probably because she expected Willow to inherit my temperament instead of Peeta’s easy charm.

“Alright, alright,” Peeta laughs, scooping her up for a second before setting her back on the warm sand. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll come with you,” Flynn offers easily. “Just stay between those wooden poles, okay? The rip current can pull you out fast if you go past them.” He points to the line of thick wooden markers driven into the sand a little way out, their tops bleached white by years of sun and salt.

I taught Peeta how to swim in the lake back home not long after the war, and Willow’s been paddling like a little fish since she was three, so I nod without a single worry. “Go on. Stay close to Flynn.”

With that, the three of them run into the water, laughing as the first cool waves rush up to meet them. I stand on the warm sand and smile at how easily this kind of ordinary joy can happen now—how I’m standing here, in another district by choice this time, watching my daughter splash and shriek with pure happiness while the boy who looks so much like Finnick keeps watch.

It just shows how far Panem really has come. The shadows of the old world still linger in quiet places, but right now, with the sun on my skin and the sound of free laughter carried on the salt breeze, those shadows feel very far away.

I stay in the shallow water with Emmer, the cool waves lapping gently around my ankles. He plops down happily in the wet sand, smacking the surface with both chubby hands and squealing every time a spray of salt water hits his face. Sunlight dances across the turquoise shallows and catches in his wet ashy-blonde curls, turning them almost gold. I smile at his pure, uncomplicated delight, the sound of his laughter brighter than anything the Capitol ever tried to sell us.

My mother’s voice pulls my gaze gently to the side. She’s standing beside me in the shallows, looking down with a soft, careful smile. “You’ve created quite the life for yourself, Katniss.”

I nod, eyes drifting back to Peeta and Willow splashing farther out with Flynn. The three of them are laughing, water sparkling around them like liquid light. “I have. It’s… really great. Almost indescribable sometimes.”

“Of course it is.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “You know… they’d be so proud of you.”

My jaw tightens. I know exactly who she means—Dad and Prim. The names still sit heavy in the air between us, even after all these years.

“Mom, please…” I mumble. Talking about this over the phone is one thing; seeing the pain flicker across her face in real time is another. I can’t do it right now. Not when the sun is warm on my shoulders and my children are laughing freely in the waves. I want this visit to be about the family we have now—not the ones we lost.

“I just need to say this once,” she says gently, “and then we’ll leave it alone.”

I hesitate, then give a small nod against my better judgment.

She takes a slow breath, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you the way I did. That’s true. I was grieving so deeply I couldn’t face going back to a place filled with the ghosts of them. You still needed me, and I left you to heal alone. I’m sorry, Katniss. I hope… one day you can understand and forgive me.”

The words land softly, but they still sting. I keep my voice calm—prouder of that steadiness than I probably should be. “I forgave you a long time ago, Mom. I do understand why you left. Peeta’s taught me not to judge people for how they carry their pain. That’s the difference between us, though. Even if something terrible happened to him, I wouldn’t abandon our children. And I didn’t heal alone—I had Peeta. He and the kids… they’re the only ones I need now.”

I don’t say it cruelly, but the truth sits there between us, clear and quiet. My mother will always be my mother, and I will always love her in my own guarded way. But we’ll never be close again the way we once were. I’ll let her know her grandchildren. I’ll write and call and visit when I can. But I can’t let myself get too close. Not when I’ve already been left behind twice before. I won’t risk it a third time.

She seems to hear everything I don’t say. Her smile is small and a little sad, but she nods. “You’re so strong, Katniss. Stronger than I ever was. I’m proud of you.”

I manage a quiet nod in return. Before she can say anything more, Peeta comes wading out of the deeper water, a little out of breath, water streaming down the bare skin of his chest and abdomen. I try not to look too hard at the droplets tracing the old scars and the strong lines of him—not with my mother standing right beside me.

“You’re looking rather lonely up here,” he grins, blue eyes bright with mischief.

I arch a brow. “I have Emmer to look after.”

“You should swim with us for a little bit,” he says, glancing back toward Willow and Flynn.

“I’m perfectly fine here, thank you.”

Then that wicked little grin spreads across his face—the one I’ve known for half my life and can still read like an open book. I understand my fate the second I see it, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it easily. I start slowly backing away through the shallows.

“Peeta Mellark, I swear if you—”

“Peeta!” I squeal as he lunges, catches me around the waist, and hoists me clean over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.

“Your mother is more than capable of watching over her grandson!” he laughs over my squealing and the fists I pound against his wet back. I catch one last glimpse of my mom kneeling beside Emmer, who holds up a small shell he just found, both of them smiling at each other, before the world flips and I’m launched into the air.

My scream cuts short as I hit the water. Cool salt floods my mouth and nose for half a second before my feet find the sandy bottom. I push up hard and surface, shoving wet hair out of my face. Peeta is doubled over with laughter a few feet away, completely unrepentant.

“Damn you, Peeta Mellark!” I curse, scowling even as the corners of my mouth fight a smile.

“I warned you back in town that I would do it first,” he grins, eyes sparkling.

I glare at him, then launch myself through the chest-high water. Lucky for me, I’ve been swimming since I was a child and move through the waves like I was born to them. Unlucky for Peeta, he has far less experience and is still a little unsteady on his prosthetic in the shifting sand. He tries to run, but I catch him from behind and tackle him with everything I have. He yelps as we both go under in a tangle of limbs and bubbles.

We surface together, both of us gasping and laughing.

“So uncalled for,” Peeta says, wiping water from his eyes.

“You deserved it,” I fire back.

He grins that soft, devastating grin and grabs me by the waist, pulling me flush against him. The look on his face tells me exactly what he wants. “Not with everyone watching, Peeta,” I mutter, though there’s no real fight left in me.

“Who gives a damn,” he mumbles, and then his lips are on mine—warm and salty and familiar. I’m already smiling as I throw my arms over his shoulders and kiss him back, the waves rocking us gently while our children laugh somewhere nearby and the sun keeps shining on this life we somehow built out of the ruins.

After a long stretch of swimming with Peeta, Willow, and Flynn, we dive under the deeper water again and again. Sunlight filters down through the turquoise in shifting golden shafts, lighting up schools of tiny silver fish that dart between bright coral and soft green sea grass. Willow kicks harder than the rest of us, determined, and manages to find several large, spiral shells half-buried in the pale sand of the ocean floor. She surfaces each time with a triumphant splash and a wide, open-mouthed grin, holding her prizes high for us to see.

I eventually start to tire. My arms feel heavy, and more than that, I miss Emmer’s solid little weight against me. I signal to the others that I’m heading back and let them continue their underwater adventures. The swim to the shallows is slower, peaceful, the cool water sliding over my skin as the waves grow gentler the closer I get to shore.

Emmer squeals the second he spots me, little arms shooting up in pure delight. “Mama! Hel!” he giggles, holding a smooth white shell high above his head like a trophy.

I laugh and sit down right in the shallow water beside him, the sand soft and cool under me. “It is beautiful! How many did you find, my clever boy?” I ask, running my fingers gently through his wet ashy curls.

He yanks his little bucket into his lap with both hands and jabs a chubby finger inside, counting with fierce concentration. “Wun… doo… fee!”

I bite my lip hard to keep from smiling too wide. There are at least a dozen shells nestled in the sand and water at the bottom of that bucket, but he looks so proud of his counting that I wouldn’t dream of correcting him.

“Good counting, Emmer! You’re so smart!” I say, leaning in to plant a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. He dissolves into bright, bubbling laughter and immediately tries to press the shell against my face so I can “see” it better.

When I glance up, my mother is watching us with watery eyes, a few stray tears already slipping down her cheeks.

“Mom?” I furrow my brows, concern rising instantly.

She sniffles and quickly wipes the tears away with the back of her hand, giving me a small, watery smile. “It’s alright… I’m just so very happy to see you as a mother. You suit it so beautifully.”

The words hit softer than I expect. Tears prick at the corners of my own eyes, but I blink them away before they can fall. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “They’re good kids… so they make it look easy.”

My mother smiles, the expression warm and a little sad all at once. “That is very true.”

I look back at Emmer, who is now carefully placing his newest shell into the bucket with the rest of his treasure, and feel something settle deep in my chest. The ocean keeps sighing around us, the sun is warm on my wet shoulders, and for this quiet moment at least, the old distance between my mother and me feels a little less sharp.

We spend a couple of peaceful hours at the beach, the kind of easy, sun-drenched time that still feels like a gift I don’t quite deserve. Willow paddles fearlessly between Peeta and Flynn, her bright laughter ringing out over the waves every time they spin her in slow circles or pretend to race her to the wooden markers. She even takes turns climbing onto their shoulders and launching herself off into the deeper water with a joyful shriek, ever my brave girl. The salt spray catches the sunlight and turns every splash into tiny rainbows, and I find myself just watching them for long stretches, letting the ordinary magic of it settle deep into my bones.

Emmer stays with me in the shallows, happily running his chubby hands through the wet sand and occasionally trying to stuff fistfuls of it into his mouth. I have to keep scolding him gently for it, though I’m not the least bit surprised when he eventually starts whining and tugging insistently at the edge of my swimsuit.

I scoop him up, settle us both under the shade of a tall palm tree a little farther up the beach, and throw my light cover-up over us so he can nurse in private. The salt still clings to my skin, warm and sticky, while the sun filters through the palm fronds and paints shifting patterns across my shoulders. Emmer feeds quickly—almost greedily—and I have to run my fingertips slowly over his soft cheeks and forehead to get him to slow down. He really must be hungry.

Eventually even my own stomach reminds me that we haven’t eaten since breakfast. That explains Emmer’s sudden appetite. I carefully sit him up against my chest and call out across the water, shading my eyes against the bright glare. “We should head back! It’s time to get ready for dinner.”

Peeta lifts Willow onto his shoulders and wades in, both of them dripping and smiling, her dark braids plastered to her wet cheeks. Flynn follows close behind, shaking water from his hair like a big dog and making Willow giggle all over again. We gather our towels and the scattered buckets—sand sticking to everything, including in-between our toes—and make the short, warm walk back to the house.

Inside, the air is already rich with the scent of lemon, fresh herbs, and grilled fish. My mother, who headed back with Annie a little while earlier, stands at the kitchen counter chopping something green with steady, practiced movements. Annie moves around the long wooden table, setting out plates and glasses that catch the late-afternoon light. Peeta and I take the children straight upstairs to rinse off the sand that’s worked its way into every fold of skin and strand of hair.

The shower is warm and quick. Willow chatters the whole time about how fast she swam and how Flynn said she was “almost as good as a real District 4 kid.” Emmer, however, has clearly reached the end of his rope. He splashes and squeals and tries to squirm away every time I wash his ashy curls.

“Emmer, stop it,” I scold gently, though I can already feel the meltdown building. He’s on the road to being completely over-tired. I won’t be surprised if he has a full-blown tantrum by dinner. That just means an early bedtime for both of us.

“Emmer, you need to listen to Mommy because she gave us life and we must be happy for her. Right, Mommy?” Willow says solemnly, trying to help. Her little brother clearly doesn’t understand a word and just squeals in pure outrage at his sister’s lecture.

I grin and glance over at Peeta, who’s sitting on the closed toilet lid with a matching grin of his own. “Yes, but it’s alright. Emmer is still learning. Mommy’s just a bit tired… and so is Emmer.”

“Here, I’ll finish their shower,” Peeta murmurs, standing and helping me to my feet. “You go lay out their clothes.”

I give him a grateful smile and press a soft kiss to his wet cheek before turning to leave the bathroom. Emmer immediately whines at the sight of me going, but Peeta is quick to soothe him—blowing a loud raspberry against his belly that turns the protest into delighted squeals and giggles.

Out in the bedroom I lay Willow’s soft nightdress on the bed. She dresses herself with proud, tongue-biting concentration while I wrestle Emmer into his pajamas. Once they’re both clean and clothed, Willow happily takes charge of her little brother, talking to him in a steady stream of big-sister chatter so Peeta and I can finally shower ourselves.

In that tiny pocket of quiet, the bathroom door clicks shut behind us and the rest of the world falls away for a moment. We share a long, silent embrace under the warm spray, his arms strong around me and his hands rubbing slow, sure circles against the tension in my lower back. It’s all the comfort I need. The salt and sand rinse away, the day’s heat softens, and for a few precious minutes there is only the steady beat of his heart against mine and the quiet certainty that this—this ordinary, exhausted, sun-tired peace—is exactly what we fought for.

By the time we come downstairs, Annie and Flynn are already seated at the long dining table, talking quietly. My mother is still at the counter, the rhythmic chop of her knife mixing with the distant sigh of waves through the open windows. The whole house smells like home in a way I never expected—garlic sizzling gently in a pan, bright lemon, and the faint sweetness of coconut rice steaming on the stove. Soft evening light spills across the wooden floors, turning everything gold.

Flynn spots us first and stands immediately, reaching for Emmer with an easy grin. “Come here, little man.” Emmer squeals with pure delight as Flynn scoops him up and starts jogging around the room in wide, looping circles, making low hovercraft noises deep in his throat. Willow claims Flynn’s empty chair without hesitation and immediately launches into an animated story for Annie about the lake back home—how she can swim all the way across it now, how the water is colder than the ocean but she doesn’t mind one bit.

Peeta leans close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Come with me,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “I want to show you something.”

I hesitate, glancing at the children. The only person I’ve ever left them with alone is Peeta—he’s the only one I trust completely with their safety. My mother must sense the tension tightening my shoulders because she looks up from the counter, knife paused mid-chop.

“They’ll be fine, Katniss,” she says gently. “They’re safe here. Go on, you two.”

I meet her eyes for a long moment, searching for any flicker of the old distance. Then I nod once, choosing—maybe for the first time since we arrived—to trust her with this small, precious piece of my world.

Peeta takes my hand, his fingers warm and sure around mine, and leads me back out the back door and down the short path to the beach. We don’t go far. We simply sink down onto the still-warm sand beneath a tall palm tree, its long fronds rustling softly overhead in the evening breeze. I lean my head against his shoulder, the steady beat of his heart a comfort I’ve come to rely on more than air. The sun is beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and rose—Peeta’s favorite color.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” he says quietly, voice low and warm against my hair.

I smile, eyes fixed on the glowing horizon. “A very long way.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. “A love story for the ages.”

I snort, the sound half-laugh, half-disbelief. “I don’t know how our kids are ever going to handle finding out their mom used their dad’s feelings for her as leverage to survive the Games.”

Peeta’s arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. “They’ll understand, Katniss. You were terrified. You were trying to get back to Prim. We were just kids thrown into feelings we barely understood ourselves.”

Somehow, even after twenty years, he still knows exactly what I need to hear. I turn to look at him and find his blue eyes already on me, steady and full of that quiet certainty that has carried us through every storm.

“Well, I love their dad now,” I whisper. “So much it still scares me sometimes.”

“Me too,” he murmurs, cupping my face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently over my cheekbones. “You’re the greatest love of my life, Katniss. Always.”

He kisses me then—slow, deep, and unhurried—the way only Peeta ever has. I thread my fingers through his still-damp curls as his hands settle on my hips and pull me to straddle his lap, holding him close as our mouths move together in the same perfect rhythm we’ve found after every nightmare, every hard day, every quiet victory. The sun slips lower, painting the sea in liquid gold, and for these few stolen minutes the rest of the world fades completely away.

Despite the nightmares that still wake me screaming some nights, despite the fear that in just two more years Willow will start learning the real history of Snow and the Games, despite every scar we carry on our skin and in our minds… I am glad it all led us here.

I am at peace with my past. I refuse to let the monsters of those years dictate the rest of my life.

When the day comes that I see Prim again, I will be able to look her in the eye and tell her I lived for her. I lived the full, messy, beautiful life I know she would have wanted for me—the one I never knew I needed until Peeta and our children filled it with light.

A life with a husband who can make me laugh on the days I want to cry, and children who can make me smile on the days I want to lock myself away in a room alone. That is my true victory. That is the life I will choose in this lifetime and the next.

Always.