"We could make it, you know," Gale says quietly.

"What?" I ask.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it."

The steps to the door are new, quiet and freshly painted a deep brown color. The house looks the same as all the others on the street; plain and modern. Clean. Expensive. The homes in District 12 would be lucky to look this good when they were first built. There's a plant box beneath each of the windows on either side of the door, holding thriving wildflowers. She walks silently across the small landing above the stairs and hesitates. She could go back right now, back to the Victor's Village, back into Peeta's reluctant arms. Though that will hardly do any good; the nightmares would only continue. No. She has to do this.

On the third knock, he opens the door.

It's been a year since she's seen Gale Hawthorne, a year since she openly let him leave without a sliver of regret. She regretted it now. He looks mostly the same, though his hair is shorter and he's gained some muscle. His dark eyes, which used to hold so much passion and fire, are just barely smoldering with life as they stare her down. Neither of them talk for several minutes. There's not much to say. He had left, and she had let him. Why was she back?

"Katniss." Her name sounds foreign on his lips. Catnip, she almost corrects him. But she's not Catnip anymore. She isn't his best friend. Whether she's less than that or more is unclear.

"Gale," she whispers, voice barely audible. Then she's in his arms, burying her face into his shirt and absorbing his warmth. She could die right now and it would be okay.

"Do you remember before the first Games, when you were talking about leaving?" she asks. She would've said something about the time in the cabin before the 75th Games, but the idea of bringing Peeta or Haymitch had become one of her biggest regrets. Gale nods.

"Are you still up for it?"

The fence has a gate now, but using that instead of crawling under the mangled wire seems out of place. They slip beneath the chain-links and walk through the familiar trees and bushes. Their bags don't weigh down on their backs, not when they feel so free. Finally free.

She has to do this. She can't take another day of the memories that flash into her mind when she looks around District 12, the nightmares that control her sleep when she lays down on the soft comforter of her Victor's Village bed. She can't bear to be around Peeta, who only brings back both of the Games, his torture, and her almost being choked to death. Seeing the Justice Building reminds her of Madge, who is dead and gone. Seeing her old house, wrecked and broken, reminds her of what family she used to have, with a loving mother, protective father, and sweet little sister. That might be a good memory to anyone else. To her, it's the worst loss she's ever experienced. Seeing the meadow, which had been designated as the mass grave for all the burned bodies and unidentified bones of the bombs, sickens her. District 12 is no longer her home.

The woods, though, have always been her home. Since she was little, and her father would take her out and teach her to use a bow, they've been her sanctuary. She trusts them to pull away all the despair she's been trapped in. If the woods fail to do so, Gale will.

When they reach their meeting place, the sun is beginning to fall behind the mountains. She turns back to face District 12, watching the lights become brighter in the developing darkness.

That's right. There are lights now.

When she's finished with her silent goodbye, the two of them turn and stride down an invisible path that they know by heart, their silent footsteps somehow echoing through the empty air. They never turn back.

If someone were to follow them, they would find a plain wooden box tied with twine settled in a patch of dandelions just inside the fence. If they were to cut the twine away, they would find a black uniform constructed with nearly indestructible fabric. They would find an old blue ribbon that, sometime in the past, had tied back the golden locks of a beautiful little girl named Primrose. They would find a glimmering pearl that had once been a shining light in a tragedy that shed darkness into the hearts of twenty-four people. Tucked beneath these things would be a thin strip of velvet cut from the collar of an expensive dress, once a rare luxury in District 12. Settled in one corner of the box they would find a knot of rope, worn and fraying from the fingers that had nervously tied it over and over again. In another corner would be a rose, white as snow, with an intoxicating scent. Buried beneath all of these things would lie a small golden pin, intricately crafted to display a bird with an arrow in its beak. These little trinkets, which had once meant everything, were no longer needed. The girl who had once owned them didn't need much at all anymore.

She was free.