Me and Ivy crawl back into bed after twenty minutes of whispering in the dark. Eventually, exhaustion pulls us under. When I wake again, sunlight spills through the thin curtains. It’s one in the afternoon. Reaping day always starts late — gives everyone time to look presentable before their lives possibly fall apart. I sit up slowly. My stomach feels hollow. I’m about to head to the bathroom to wash up when Papa’s voice carries down the hallway. “Willow? Can you come here for a second?” His tone is careful. Too careful. I walk to his room and knock softly before stepping inside. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed with a glass of something amber-colored in his hand. The smell hits me before I even look at it. And at his feet is a large leather box. Old. Worn. The kind of thing you don’t open unless you have to. “Hey, Papa. What’s up?” He sets the glass on his desk, like he suddenly remembers I can see it, and lifts the box onto the bed between us. “I have something for you,” he says quietly. “From your mother.” The word lands wrong. Mother? I haven’t seen her in fifteen years. She left right after Ivy was born. No fight. No warning. Just gone. One morning she was humming in the kitchen, and the next her side of the closet was empty. It broke Papa. That’s when the drinking started. I don’t blame him. I think losing someone like that would hollow anyone out. “Mother?” I repeat, sharper than I mean to. “What do you mean?” He opens the box slowly. Inside is a dress. Not just a dress — a beautiful one. Deep green fabric folded carefully, like it’s been waiting for this moment. A vintage-style maxi dress with tiny floral print scattered across it. The bodice is fitted and structured, delicate trim sewn beneath the bust and again near the hem. The skirt falls in soft, tiered layers that look like they would move when you walk. It doesn’t look like something from our district. “Your mother left a letter with it,” Papa says. “She said if you made it to eighteen… you could wear it for your last reaping.” For a second, I don’t know whether to laugh or throw it back in the box. “That’s… considerate of her,” I say, and even I can hear the sarcasm. I lift the dress carefully from the box. The fabric is softer than I expect. It smells faintly like cedar and something floral — like it’s been sealed away for years. “Wow,” I breathe before I can stop myself. “This is… woah.” It’s gorgeous. And I hate that I love it. “I knew you would,” Papa says softly. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read. Guilt? Hope? Grief? “You should try it on.” I look down at the dress again. If I wear it and my name gets called, this will be the dress I’m remembered in. If I wear it and I don’t get called, maybe it becomes something else. A symbol. A goodbye to the Games. Or maybe it’s just fabric. I swallow. “Okay,” I say quietly.
