A/N: A quick drabble. A hundred and fifty words, as counted by Microsoft Word. Please read and review.

Canary Yellow

He walks all the way to the other side of town, to the old graveyard. It's usually sometime in the middle of the night, and he's tired but afraid of the dreams that haunt him with sleep.

It's quiet, and no one bothers him.

Colorful wildflowers sprinkle the path, and he picks a few. Sometimes.

Her grave is shiny and new, untouched by dirt and time. He thinks she would have liked the flowers he always places on her grave. They're canary yellow, the color of sunshine.

A girl is kneeling on the soft dirt the next time he comes. The color of his flowers match her hair.

Her eyes are cerulean and beautiful. So familiar and painful, and yet he can't look away. Something glints in her hand. A golden pin. A mockingjay.

"Take it," she whispers.

He looks at the grave, littered with dying wildflowers. "No," he says.