𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗 ✪ 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙾𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚛

- ȶɦɨʀȶʏ ȶɦʀɛɛ

"Mama?" Clover quietly said, tugging on her Mama's hand. Katia was trying to hide how upset she was for her kids. She blinked quickly, forcing the tears back as she looked down at her daughter's wide, pale blue eyes—so much like her own. She didn't want to cry in front of them. Not yet. Not while the Games were still on. Not while there was still the tiniest thread of hope to hold on to.

"Yes, baby?" Katia said softly, smoothing Clover's curls back behind her ear.

"Is Auntie Willa okay?" she asked. Katia's throat tightened. She glanced over at the TV—still running, now just showing an aerial view of the arena, the aftermath of the wave. No cannon. No tribute face in the sky. Just destruction. Emptiness. And silence.

"I don't know, sweet girl," Katia admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But she's brave. And she loves you very, very much."

Clover leaned into her, tiny hands gripping the fabric of her shirt.

"Miss Auntie Willa." she murmured.

"I know," Katia said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I miss her too."

From the hallway, Axel padded in, his blankie trailing behind him, his face pale and sleepy.

"Why's the sky all quiet?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. Katia opened her arms, and he climbed into her lap beside Clover without another word. She wrapped her arms around both of them, holding on like the world might slip away if she didn't.

"It's just waiting," Katia murmured. "The sky is waiting. Just like us."

They sat like that for a long while, curled together on the couch in the soft flicker of the television. Katia didn't know what would come next. But right now, she didn't have to say anything else. Just be there. Just hold them close. Just keep pretending, for as long as she could, that hope was still enough. The soft hum of the TV filled the silence, the Capitol commentators murmuring in the background, but Katia barely heard them. She focused on the steady rhythm of her children's breathing, the rise and fall of their small chests pressed against her sides. Her arms wrapped tightly around them like a shield, like somehow she could protect them from the ache blooming in her chest.

"Mama," Axel mumbled after a long moment, his cheek pressed to her shoulder. "Do think Auntie Willa's cold?"

Katia's heart squeezed.

"She's tough, remember?" she said gently. "She knows how to keep warm. She's probably found a good spot to rest. Somewhere dry. Somewhere safe."

Axel nodded, his eyelids heavy again. Clover stayed quiet, her thumb resting near her lips, eyes still wide and fixed on the screen. Her hand clutched Katia's shirt tightly, like she was afraid to let go.

"Don't want her be alone," Clover whispered.

"She's not," Katia said, brushing a curl from her daughter's cheek. "She has people with her. And she's thinking of you. I promise she is."

Silence settled again. Outside, the world was still. The sun was barely rising, casting gold across the kitchen tiles and painting soft light across the living room floor. In that light, the children looked so small, so breakable. Katia leaned back against the couch cushions, letting her head rest for just a moment.

"Maybe we can draw her a picture today," she said softly. "One for when she comes home."

"Can we draw the tree fort?" Axel murmured, eyes closed but still listening.

"Yes," Katia said. "With the rope ladder and the little windows she helped you paint."

"And the stars," Clover added sleepily. Katia nodded, her throat tight again.

"Willa loves the stars. She always said they reminded her of home."

Home.

She closed her eyes for a second, holding her children close as the screen flickered quietly beside them. Clover eventually fell asleep in her lap, her breathing soft and even, one hand still curled in Katia's shirt. Axel was curled up beside them, his thumb tucked under his chin, his blankie half-draped over both of them. For a while, Katia didn't move. She just sat there in the night light, running her fingers gently through her daughter's curls, listening to the whisper of wind outside the window and the low, static-laced commentary on the screen. It wasn't until the announcer's tone shifted—brisk, too composed—that Katia opened her eyes fully. She turned toward the television. A recap. Images flashing: the towering wave crashing through the jungle. Screams. Static. The cannon fire echoing over the lake.

Then: names.

A pause.

A face.

Willa's.

Faintly blurred by motion. Her district number beneath her photo.

Katia's heart stopped.

"No," she whispered. It wasn't loud enough to wake the kids. But the word broke something open inside her. Her arms tightened around them instinctively, like she could somehow hold them against the impact of what she had just seen. Of what she now knew.

No. No, no, no.

They must be wrong.

It had to be a mistake.

But it wasn't. She knew it wasn't.

Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't cry—not really. It was too deep for that. Too big. The kind of pain that settled into her bones and took the air with it. She buried her face in Clover's hair, breathing her in.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

Outside, the sun kept rising.

On the screen, the Games went on.

But in Katia's living room, the world had stopped.