Katniss woke to the sound of footsteps—small, fast, and uneven. Rye was already up, chasing the cat through the hallway with a wooden spoon in one hand and a sock puppet on the other. She could hear Peeta in the kitchen, humming softly as he stirred something in a bowl. The scent of cinnamon drifted through the house.
The fire had burned low overnight, but the embers still glowed. Outside, the meadow was silver with dew, and the trees beyond it swayed gently in the wind. It was a quiet morning. A normal one.
She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her face. Willow was still asleep beside her, curled into a ball, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit. Katniss smiled and pulled the blanket up over her daughter's shoulders.
In the kitchen, Peeta was making cinnamon rolls. Rye—four years old and full of questions—was sitting on the counter, covered in flour. He held up the spoon like it was a sword.
"Mom!" he shouted when he saw her. "We're making breakfast armor!"
Katniss raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
Peeta grinned. "He says cinnamon rolls make you brave."
Katniss poured herself tea and sat at the table. The walls were lined with drawings—some from the kids, some from Peeta, one or two from Katniss herself. A sketch of the meadow. A charcoal outline of a mockingjay. A crayon sun with six legs and a smile.
Willow wandered in, still half-asleep, and climbed into Katniss's lap. She didn't speak. Just rested her head on her mother's shoulder and watched the dough rise.
Later, they all went outside. The kids ran through the grass, chasing butterflies and shouting about invisible monsters. Peeta brought out a basket of bread. Katniss sat on the porch, watching them play.
She didn't think about the Games. Not today.
She thought about the garden they'd plant next week. About the school Willow would start in the fall. About the way Peeta still looked at her like she was the first sunrise he'd ever seen.
It was a normal morning. The kind she never thought she'd have.
And it was enough.
