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She wakes with a jolt, the kind that feels like someone whispered her name. A faint chill settles in her bones. Maysilee's eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling, feeling like she just got drenched by a bucketful of freezing water.
Maysilee…
The words are whispered softly, dancing across her skin, gooseflesh pebbling underneath the tracks. She lies there. Her heart thuds against her ribcage painfully. Her body is numb, she's unable to lift her legs nor her arms. But her fingers twitch slightly on top of her comforter.
Maysilee…
The voice murmurs again. It sounds familiar, but not at the same time. A strange warmth pulses as a memory tugs at her mind, trying to break to the surface. She tries to grasp it, but it slips from her fingers. It vanishes before she can try again. Maysilee tries to swallow, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. They drip softly onto the silk pillowcase and wet her hair.
She closes her eyes, tries to control her breathing. Her shoulders shake as she inhales deeply and exhales roughly. It does little to control the creeping iciness crawling over her skin and sinking into her bones.
The Victory Tour had kept her surrounded— cameras, Capitol escorts, endless noise and people— but now, over a year later, the silence finally has its chance to sink its teeth into her and swallow her whole.
A soft snore breaks the stillness. Her eyes fling open and Maysilee turns her head. Even in the pitch-black bedroom, she can make out Merrilee curled up on the floor like a sleepy kitten. Her sister is fast asleep, blank draped over her lithe form, blonde hair splayed around her head like a sunburst.
It does little to subdue her nerves. She stares at her twin, telepathically willing her to wake. To help free her from this paralysis that has its hold on the rest of her body. But her sister doesn't wake at all, not even a slight stir.
Maysilee waits. She holds her breath. Blood rushes in her head, pulsing against her ears. But the voice doesn't come again.
Maysilee…
It wakes her again, a few nights later. The November chill has settled over the house. This time the pitch is different, but she can't distinguish it, but it's sharper. She just stares at the ceiling, hands folded atop her stomach, black nail polish chipped. Maysilee hears the soft patter of feet outside her bedroom.
Merrilee. It must be. She pushes herself up on her elbows, glancing toward the closed door. The footfalls disappear from her door and she frowns. Did Merrilee just want to make sure she's asleep? Or maybe it's just her Papa wanting to check on her like he's done since she was a child?
Maysilee swings her legs over the side of the bed. Despite the nippy air, due to the draft under the two windows in her bedroom, her nightgown clings to her back. Cotton saturated with sweat. She doesn't even remember sweating.
When her bare feet touch the cold floor, the voice comes back. It slices through the silence, too sharp to be comforting.
Maysilee…
Her breath catches. Her eyes dart around the room, looking for the voice; her mind conjuring images of distorted, grotesque monsters— zombies with peeling gray skin and sunken dull eyes, vampires with sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight peeking through the billowing curtains, werewolves with hunger darkening their eyes and salivating at the thought of eating her alive.
The floor steals away the heat coming from her body like it's hungry. She shivers, a sudden chill overtaking her. Maysilee stands anyway, her gaze on the far corner of the room, next to her cracked open closet door. She squints, straining her eyes to see if she can discern a silhouette.
She shuffles closer and closer. Each step makes her heart pound faster and faster. Her fingers reach out, a tremor rumbling through them, but she touches nothing but air. Out of the corner of her eye, something shifts. Maysilee freezes, her hand closing around the knob of her closet door.
With a yank, it swings open. Her eyes peer inside, but all she can see is her clothing hanging up, partitioned by color, season, and pattern. The hair on the back of her neck prickles. Her eyes have adjusted to the inkiness of the room and she realizes she must've made up shadow creatures, her imagination getting the better of her.
But as she turns to return to bed, it returns. Closer, like it's a few yards away.
Maysilee…
She glances around, bile creeping up her throat in terror. She needs to escape, a change of scenery will rid her of this persistent nightmare that's been plaguing her. Maysilee moves slowly like she's afraid any sudden movements will antagonize the voice again.
Her fingers wrap around the doorknob, but before she even opens the door, the chill melts away. The air in her bedroom turns stuffy as the warmth from the coal-burner starts up, the vents pumping warm air inside.
Maysilee stands there for what feels like hours, but she doesn't hear the voice again for the rest of the night.
It's different this time. The pitch and tone a stark contrast to what she remembers from the previous nights. It's been nearly two weeks since the last time she heard it. The voice is lighter this time, almost childlike, drifting rather than calling.
Maysilee…
This time it gently pulls her out of her sleep. Maysilee blinks, blearily. A yawn escapes her as she covers it with her hand. But she's shaken from the clutches of sleep by footsteps running down the hallway outside of her bedroom door.
She doesn't even let paralysis set in, before she's flinging off her covers and stumbling to the door, wrenching it open with a screech. The sound is muffled and when she steps into the hallway, looking both ways, it feels like she's stepped into a bubble.
There's no one in the hallway. The runner in the hallway hasn't shifted even slightly, still perfectly aligned thanks to her mother. Maysilee takes a step forward, moving closer to the stairs, but she briefly pauses. Her eyes glance at the mirror hanging on the wall above the side table littered with a long-dead plant, a candle from the market, and various books she started and got bored of.
A white sheet covers the mirror. Maysilee reaches out, fingers tracing the hem. She starts to lift it gradually. Then she tugs it off, heart racing, not sure what she expects to see other than her own reflection. Her heart stops when she stares at nothingness, but with a blink of her eyes she's there.
She stares back at herself— blue eyes dull, a frown permanently etched into her face. Before she can linger on her insecurities, the scars on her throat, the voice returns, soft and giggly.
Maysilee…
It startles her as she spins clutching the cloth to her chest, knuckles whitening from how tightly she's holding it.
That one sounded like it was from downstairs. Maysilee slowly descends the stairs, discarding the cloth along the way. Silver moonlight oozes through the windows, painting large patches of wooden floor with bright white circles. She moves from the bottom of the stairs into the living room. The fireplace is filled with ash and she briefly wonders why it's not going, but a creak has the thought flying out of her mind. It echoes strangely, almost warped-like but before she can do anything, the voice returns.
Maysilee…
It sounds distant, but close. Like it's in another room entirely and Maysilee finds herself following it. She's the sailor being lured into the siren's call. The cold seeps into her bones from all sides— from the air, from the floor. It pierces her heart like shards of glass until she's numb to it as she drifts into the kitchen.
Her eyes take in the scene. A sink piled with the day's dishes, the "new" coffee maker dripping, the wooden table decorated with a vase of wilting flowers on top of an ivory-colored tablecloth with lace trim. She can't find it in herself to care.
She reaches out, letting her fingers brush against the petals. A couple fall, sweeping into the air before landing on the tabletop; the dark curled edges a disparity to the snow-white cloth. She's unsure of how long she stands there before the voice comes again, more urgent in tone.
Maysilee…
She twirls around, suddenly remembering why she was down here. Her mouth opens, but the words won't come out. The rug in the foyer is cool under the pads of her feet, the wool stabs the bottom of her feet, but the pain is a welcome relief. It proves her heart's still beating even if she can't feel it.
Her eyes are on the front door. She reaches out, pressing her hand against the large wooden door. The frozen wood is freezing against her palm and she inhales deeply. Maysilee lowers her hand, extending it to the door knob when a thud upstairs captures her attention. It's followed by a voice.
"Maysilee?" Merrilee calls, appearing at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a blanket over her nightgown. "Why are you down here?"
Maysilee can't answer, shaken out of her reverie. She glances around, confusion and worry lingering inside her, tangling together like a knot.
"I… I don't know," she finally replies, voice rough. Her own voice sounds weird to her ears.
"You need to sleep," Merrilee murmurs. "Let's go back to bed."
Merrilee turns and disappears, but only when Maysilee starts climbing the stairs. When she gets to the top, Maysilee glances behind her, eyes scanning for the slightest disturbance, but not even so much as a dust mote floats in the air.
Maysilee…
She jolts awake. Her name fades into the air around her and she searches the room. Desperate to find an explanation, to find something that proves what she's hearing is concrete, that she's not losing her mind.
It comes again, outside her bedroom door. This one is harsh and urgent like it's warning her. Maybe it's warning her that she's spiralling, on track to crash and burn and hit rock bottom.
Maysilee…
Absentmindedly she moves. Swings her legs over the side of her bed, feet cold even with socks on. She moves toward the door, stepping over Merrilee's sleeping figure on the floor. Her sister's been sleeping in her bedroom the past several nights, increasingly worried about Maysilee's sleepwalking.
She quietly opens the door and slips into the hallway, not even sparing a glance at her twin. Her feet lead her down the hallway, but she hesitates at the top of the stairs. Fear flickers in her like a flame before being extinguished with the voice.
Maysilee…
It's further away, definitely downstairs. Her feet lead her down the steps. She pauses in the foyer, her gaze darts from side to side, trying to remember how far away it was. Trying to figure out which room it most likely came from.
A soft rustle in the living room captures her attention. She steps inside, just a bit. She strains her ears, searching for the source of the noise. Another rustle leads her farther into the room. She narrows in on a section, threading her way through the furniture until she reaches the farthest wall. The window is partially open, the wind outside releases a low mournful howl, undulating the floor length curtains.
Maysilee slams the window shut, latching it securely. The curtains flutter one last time before resting. The air turns still again. A low hum comes from the coal-burner working overtime now that winter approaches.
She leaves the room, but the voice comes again. It's muffled.
Maysilee…
She turns her head, eyes landing on the front door. Hesitation flows through her, but she shoves it aside. Maysilee closes the distance between her and the door. Without a second thought, she grasps the knob and twists it, the door opening inwards.
Late autumn air crashes over her, a wave that knocks the breath out of her. It burns, stabbing at her eyes and face with little pickaxes, but it feels invigorating in a way she hasn't felt in a long time.
Maysilee steps outside, watching her breath form in the night air. The houses around her are dark. She moves on instinct, hurrying down the steps. To where? She doesn't even know, can't speculate on what could possess her to do this. The sensations the outside has on her makes it so she can't even think.
Her socks sink into the snow dusting the ground. The cold bites through the fabric like sharpened teeth. The breeze blows the hem of her nightgown around her shins. Gooseflesh erupts over the exposed expanse of skin. Maysilee continues to walk. Her hair whips around her face.
Maysilee…
The voice calls out to her again. Farther ahead, but still present. She breaks into a run. She slips on a patch of ice, falling into the snow. The bitter cold feeling of snow under her bare palms shocks her. Maysilee lays there, the little heat radiating from her body allowing small bits of snow to melt, soaking her nightgown.
Maysilee rolls over on her back. Tilts her head back and closes her eyes, lets the coldness envelop her. Her thoughts roll around her head, but she feels like she's in a dreamless place, floating in darkness.
"Maysilee!" A voice calls, but she doesn't hear it.
She's too lost in the deep recesses of her own mind.
"Maysilee!" The voice calls again, closer than before.
But Maysilee doesn't respond, she's too busy enjoying the only peaceful moments she's had since her mind has started to turn on her.
A hand reaches out and shakes her shoulder. "Maysilee! What are you doing out here?"
"No," Maysilee mumbles. "Leave."
"Maysilee, you're gonna freeze to death!" The voice snaps. "I'm getting Papa."
Maysilee ignores it, willing the darkness to come back. Wanting to hear the voice again, to follow it. Maybe it'll lead her to a place where she won't have nightmares.
"Sweetpea," a voice murmurs. "Come on."
She only opens her eyes when she's lifted. The glassiness of her eyes slowly melts away as she sways in his arms while her father and Merrilee walk back home. Maysilee turns her head and stares out into the darkness of the horizon. A shadow appears at the opposite edge of the merchant square but she blinks and it's gone.
She's deep asleep. Dreaming— for once, happy thoughts. She tilts her face upward, the sun shining down on her. It warms her skin. A rosy tint rises on her cheeks. Her companion shifts beside, drawing her attention.
"It's so nice here," she murmurs, staring at his side profile.
"Yeah," he replies, the scrip coin in his hand gleams underneath the sun's rays. "It's pretty."
"Is that the only thing that's pretty?" Maysilee presses, a teasing lilt to her tone.
She delights in the way a flush creeps up his face as he stills. He finally turns his head. His dark eyes meet hers, searching her face for a hint of meanness. But Maysilee can't be mean to him. Even the thought of it makes her stomach twist. A soft smile slips onto his face, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
"No."
"Then what else?" She asks. She wants him to say it. She needs him to say it.
"More like who else," he answers. He tilts his head. "But you already know what I'm thinking."
His words sink into her. "No," she denies, "I don't."
"Oh, but you do. Maysilee."
Her eyes fly open, a gasp tearing from her throat. Maysilee looks around, searching— for the sunlight, for the shimmering lake, for the boy who she loves. There's nothing but moonlight filtering in through her bedroom windows and the rasps of her breaths.
Maysilee climbs out of bed. She goes straight to her bedroom door and leaves. The doors to the other bedrooms remain slightly ajar. She moves faster than before, pausing only once to glance over her shoulder at her bedroom door. The memory still lingers in her mind.
Maysilee…
It comes again, deep and urgent. And her concerns about her family disappear out of her head as she steps down the stairs. She practically glides to the front door, trying to open the door to welcome the glacial cold of winter. But it doesn't open. She frowns before she remembers.
It's been two weeks since she heard the last voice. Two weeks since her parents fought over whether they should be locking all the doors, including her bedroom door so she can't keep sleepwalking. Merrilee and her sitting in Merrilee's room, grasping each other's hands. Two weeks since they at least agreed on locking the front and back door. That way they have a better chance of catching her before something bad happens. Her mother insisted on locking her bedroom door at night, but Maysilee refused. She refuses to stay trapped in a gilded cage.
Maysilee grunts as she tugs on the door knob. But it won't open and she doesn't have the key to unlock the padlock her father commissioned from Tam Amber. She wants to scream, to slam her hand against the door, to claw her way out.
But if she does that then her family will wake. And they'll lock her in her bedroom and she won't be able to follow his voice. Her heart squeezes in her chest at the thought. She can't let that happen.
The urge to see him again overrides any worry from her family. Maysilee stands there, breaths coming quick and fast.
Maysilee…
There it is again. It comes from deep into the living room. Maysilee follows it. Her eyes land on the windows— her only route of escape now. She tries the front windows. New shiny locks glint at her. She growls under her breath before going to the only other window.
She pushes up with all her might. Maysilee squeezes her eyes shut and freezes when it squeaks softly. Blood rushes to her ears as she awaits the inevitable discovery from her parents, but after a few moments of silence, the tension lessens slightly.
Her eyes settle on the lock. It's not as new as before. She remembers it. Her Papa used to lock the side door of the Sweet Shop with it until it started to rust and he wasn't sure it'd be able to withstand a concentrated effort to break it. So he got a new one, but hoarded this one.
Maysilee remembers where he keeps the key. She creeps into the kitchen. Her eyes land on a kitchen drawer and Maysilee pulls it open as quietly as possible. The various miscellaneous items clink gently against each other as Maysilee scours first with her eyes, then with her fingers until she finally finds the key to the lock.
She holds it up triumphantly before heading out of the kitchen again. She slips back into the living room and inserts the key into the lock, twisting until the satisfying click echoes in the air. Quickly, Maysilee yanks the lock off the window and tosses it onto the armchair nearby.
The window slides open faster this time. Maysilee climbs out, dropping onto the frozen ground. She freezes, suddenly remembering the snowfall they've had. It's glacial outside, but she's already in the thick of it so she decides to tough it out.
Fat snowflakes circle lazily in the air before amassing on the ground as she starts her stroll. The massive houses surrounding hers are dark— empty, waiting to be filled. She waits for his voice to lead her, knows he won't disappoint her. His voice only comes again after the leaves the gates, the wind blowing them roughly as they screech.
Maysilee…
It's farther ahead. Maysilee's breath catches in her throat as she follows it. She runs across the merchant square; she's sure she's a sight to be held. Hair flying behind her, cheeks rosy from the biting wind, nightgown sticking to her skin from the wet of the snow. She slides on a patch of ice but this time she stays upright, sticking her arms out to keep her balance.
She finally makes it to the edge of the merchant square, panting breaths escaping her delicate frame. A noise captures her attention. Footsteps, several of them all in sequence. The snow squelches under their shoes as Maysilee darts to hide. She presses herself deep into a nearby alley, hiding behind some cardboard boxes. She reads the label on them: BAKERY.
Maysilee holds her breath as seven Peacekeepers march past, surely doing rounds. She frowns— normally this long after the Games they go to the Hob and drink and then head back to their base. Not patrol the square and likely the Seam. Or at least from what she remembers when she'd sneak out to see him.
Once it becomes silent again, Maysilee moves. She runs as fast as she can. The warmth in his voice keeps her warm, her heart caught aflame by the familiarity. She can envision him again, but his name keeps escaping her grasp. It's on the tip of her tongue, but it won't fall.
Her socks are soaked through as she wanders down a dirt path. The houses of the Seam are darkened, all of the inhabitants fast asleep. Or still at the Hob, but she doesn't remember the time. It's all been a blur anyway.
Snow continues to fall from the sky as she walks, allowing her lungs a reprieve from the constant running. Her lungs burn but the pain is welcomed. She comes to a fork in the road, glancing from left to right. Hesitation takes over; should she go left where his house is or should she go right?
Maysilee…
It comes from her right and she follows without a second thought. Then she sees it and stops, eyes widening. A shadow up ahead, shoulders hunched and head down. Maysilee trails after it, not daring to get any closer. Too afraid of scaring him by calling out or getting close.
Her heart thuds in her throat as she walks quietly behind him. A gasp slips from her lips when he flickers. The shadow slowly gains more features. Maysilee can make out the paperboy cap on the head, the patched up shirt that his Ma made him. She keeps following.
As she gets closer and closer to her destination, he slowly morphs more. His muscles become defined, the strands of his hair more distinct, the way his clothes move on his body more real.
Her breath comes in gasps as she climbs the hill, her socked feet making it more difficult. Maysilee grits her teeth and ignores the burn in her calves as she follows, but he's gone when she reaches the crest.
Maysilee looks around wildly, hair sticking to her face from a mixture of sweat and snow.
"Hello?" She calls out. Her voice is carried by the wind, but she doesn't get any response.
Maysilee takes a few more steps forward, eyes scanning the area for him.
"Where are you?" She shouts. "Please! Come back!"
Something akin to the feeling of warmth is draped over her. Maysilee turns to look, but nothing and no one is there. She turns back and frowns. Why is she here?
Maysilee.
The voice comes from right behind her. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck.
"I'm here," she says softly. It's barely audible over the roar of the wind.
She doesn't turn around to look, her gut tells her not to. The wind dips, just for a moment, and the darkness in front of her shifts. Not shapes, but more like distortions, like heat ripples off scorching summer pavement. They waver, stretch, contract, warp. It reminds her of shadows after sunset. Her breath catches as the ripples thicken, gaining weight and outlines.
A small silhouette first, then another. Then two taller ones behind them.
They flicker, pale and unsteady, as if the night itself is trying to swallow them back. Maysilee's heart stutters. She takes a step forward without meaning to, drawn in by the impossible familiarity of their forms.
The distortions sharpen— two little girls with braids, one with hollow eyes and the other in a plaid dress, a boy with curly hair and a flint striker necklace hanging from his neck, then the last boy. The one she followed, the one she loves. A newsboy cap resting on his head and a necklace with a scrip coin looped in the middle. They flicker like they're pulled from memory and cold and grief, wavering candles in a storm.
Her throat closes, her knees nearly buckle.
They float there, staring at her. And she remembers everything— their names, their deaths. Louella McCoy, Lou Lou, Haymitch Abernathy. And Wyatt Callow. Maysilee stares at them.
"Don't be sad," Wyatt says. His voice is soft, gentle. It caresses her skin.
"We aren't mad, sis," Haymitch states, a grin on his face.
Lou Lou blinks at her owlishly. Maysilee swallows a lump in her throat, she's failed to protect all of them. Regardless of the fact that Louella didn't like her.
"I'm glad it was you who won," Louella says, "if it couldn't be Haymitch."
Maysilee opens her mouth, but she can't control her thoughts. Can't pin down anything to say.
"You can't keep living like this, Mays," murmurs Wyatt. "You're killing yourself."
"No," she says, shaking her head. Her hair whips against her skin, soaked through. "I'm not. I'm trying to live."
Haymitch snorts. The sound is soft, fond in a way she hasn't heard in over a year. It steadies her more than the cold ever could.
"Mays," he says, rolling his eyes like he used to whenever she complained about the lack of cutlery in the Capitol or over the ghastly outfits Magno Stift would put them in. "Living doesn't mean chasing ghosts up hills in the middle of the night."
Lou Lou steps forward, her small form flickering like a lantern in the wind. "We're not here to take you," she says. Tears well in Maysilee's eyes— the scared little girl she remembers is no longer there. "You keep trying to follow us. We came to tell you to stop."
"You survived," Louella speaks up, lifting her chin defiantly. Her expression is unreadable, but it's not cruel. "You're supposed to keep surviving."
"I miss you." Maysilee's breath trembles. "All of you."
Wyatt moves closer. His silhouette is the steadiest, the warmest, the one that makes her chest ache the most.
"We know," he murmurs. "But you can't keep walking into the snow hoping we'll be waiting at the end of it."
Her eyes sting. She swallows hard. "I just wanted to see you. It's been over a year… I can't keep living like this."
"You will," Wyatt says. "But not like this."
The wind shifts, carrying faint voices up the hill— Merrilee's voice, cracking with panic; her Papa's voice crying out for her; her Mother's voice terrified. Maysilee turns her head, but Wyatt's voice pulls her back.
"Go home," he whispers. "Please."
"No, I don't want to."
"Please," he begs softly. "For me."
Maysilee feels her resolve crumble. His big dark eyes plead with her and she reluctantly nods.
The four of them begin to fade, their edges dissolving into drifting snow. Lou Lou gives her a tiny wave with a hop. Louella nods once, almost proud. Haymitch salutes her with two fingers, grin crooked and familiar.
Wyatt is the last to disappear. His voice lingers, warm and steady like a kiss.
"Live, Maysilee."
The hill is suddenly empty. The wind bites her face, the numbness returns in full force. And when her family reaches her— blanket trailing behind them, breathless and terrified— Maysilee lets herself lean into her sister's arms.
She clings to Merrilee's warmth, and for the first time in months, the only voice she hears is her own breath.