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𝐹𝑂𝑈𝑅 ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇs
❦
In Cillian's mind, district seven was little more than trees and wooden huts.
He supposed he was different now: not quite district but not quite Capitol. He wished there was something in between, where what he was, was enough. Perhaps what he really wished, was to demolish the Capitol and the districts alike. To start new and fresh. To eradicate the need to be the same, to fight for something better. But it was dangerous to wish for the impossible, and it was hard to remember that when so many people didn't.
The Victor's Village of District Seven was central to the entire area, placed neatly behind the old hall and just east of the train station that could only be accessed by Capitol authorised personnel. To each direction the eye could see, trees filled the landscape, thinned and tall, built and grown like light posts. The spindly leaves were the only hint of green for miles. Everything else was monotonously brown.
His own home didn't feel like his own. As he stepped through the front door, the warm scent of bread flooded his nose. The hallway had changed. The green wallpaper he remembered was now a floral pattern of carnations and small birds, dotted with old photos- all from before. By the bottom of the staircase, pairs of shoes were strewn, a single coat hanging limply from the bannister.
"Cillian?"
His mother's voice floated from the kitchen and her rounded face appeared in the doorway seconds later. She blinked once as if trying to clear her vision, and then waddled forwards, dusting her powdered hands against her apron before she could place both palms against his cheeks, warming him from the outside cold that'd seeped into his skin.
"Oh, we were so worried when we didn't hear from you," she said, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. "How are you here?"
"I'm this year's mentor in the games," he said slowly, wary of her reaction.
Hazel's face fell for a moment, the muscles in her cheeks struggling to hold up her usual smile. She patted his shoulder, brushing off something invisible, and then nodded.
"It's alright. Maybe we'll get another winner," she said, trying to convince herself more than her son. "Who knows, with your intelligence."
They didn't say anything for a moment. Cillian pulled on a small smile and nodded briefly.
"Oh, my boy, I missed you," she said, launching her hands towards his face again.
"I missed you too."
She smelled like pine needles dampened by snow. Winter had always been his favourite season. Seeing his mother now, wrapped in her scarf despite the earliness of the month, told him that maybe she was the reason why. It was by pure luck that his games had been cold.
