Chapter Text
Little Holly reappears from her bedroom with her beloved Teddy clasped in her arms.
“Mama, I want Teddy to go in the timesule.”
“It’s “time capsule”, sweetie, and if we put Teddy in it, he’ll be there for a very long time. You won’t see him again until you’re a very old lady. You’ll be even older than Uncle Haymitch.”
Holly turns her dark curly head to examine Haymitch with her penetrating blue eyes. To a four-year-old he must appear to be very old indeed. “I think I’ll keep Teddy with me,” she says, clutching her bear closer.
“Wise decision,” says Peeta, as he sweeps her up into his arms and holds her to his chest. “Teddy would very lonely all by himself. And thirsty too.” Peeta is alluding to the bottle of whisky that was supposed to go in the time capsule. It was Haymitch’s idea as a gift for the person who opens it. But then Haymitch changed his mind and decided he can’t spare it. We’ve been teasing him about it since.
“I’ll have you know I’m a fine specimen for my age,” protests Haymitch, ignoring the jibe about the whisky.
“Yeah, well pickled in alcohol,” I smirk. “It’s time for bed now, Holly. We have a big day tomorrow. Nick is already in bed and asleep.”
A few hours later, my mother and Haymitch decide it’s their bedtime too and set off for their respective homes close by.
After we’ve tidied up and Peeta has prepared the dough for tomorrow’s bread, we ready ourselves for bed too. In the morning, we’ll be busy preparing food for our guests, both local and from inter-district. They’ll be here for the closing of the time capsule, a collaborative effort that we hope will help future historians piece together a truer account of the rebellion than the Plutarch version that’s currently taught in schools.
The wind has freshened by mid-afternoon the next day; a gusty cold wind that seems well suited for a burial. And a burial it is. A large hole has been dug into the sandy soil. Soon the time capsule will be lowered into it, and we stand around like mourners at a funeral.
In the capsule, Peeta places our written accounts of the Games and the war. First mine, and then his. Annie contributes hers. Haymitch also. And then my mother. Johanna and Gale place theirs inside together. Last is the most loaded of them all. In an envelope that Marius asked to be kept sealed, is his knowledge of Plutarch and the machinations that took place in the power struggle following the rebellion. Holly’s contribution is a selection of her drawings.
The capsule is locked, and the timer is set. We couldn’t reach a consensus whether it should be fifty years or a hundred. We compromised on seventy-five. A sealed letter has been archived with a reputable legal firm in the Capitol to be opened around the same time the timer expires. And if that fails, there’s still Finnick Jnr and Holly who’ll likely remember this day. It’s the best we can do.
I watch as Gale and Peeta work together to lower the capsule into the ground, fill it in, and then plant a shrub on top of it. They’ll never be good friends, but they get along well enough when they are together. We don’t see Johanna and Gale often, anyway. They live in 2, and have done so ever since Johanna ambushed him when he visited his brother in 7.
Annie stands a little apart, perhaps thinking of Finnick. Her husband and former therapist, Magnus Clark, has a protective arm around her. Finnick Jnr, who looks more like his father every day, fidgets and seems eager for the ceremony to be done. Possibly he wants to get to the cake and desserts that wait for us at the house. Teenage boys seem to eat a lot.
My mother has two-year-old Nick by the hand. He’s rubbing at his eyes, a sure sign that he’s ready for his nap. His full name is Pumpernickle. Peeta and I had big arguments over that name. OK, so it had to be a bread name. But why Pumpernickle? A compromise was reached. He’s called Nick. But he's registered at the Justice Building as Pumpernickle. Poor kid. But at least he has his father’s good looks and blond hair as compensation. Except for his eyes, which are grey, like mine.
Later that evening, when the food has been eaten, the guests gone home, and Holly and Nick have been tucked into bed with a bedtime story, Peeta and I settle on the couch with the memory book. It’s been several years since we’ve opened it. Its purpose was complete when we sealed it with salt water but today seems a good day to revisit it. To remember our lost loved ones. And the children who were sacrificed to the Games. Our promise was to live well to make their deaths count and we’ve done that. I lean my head against Peeta’s shoulder and his arm automatically goes around mine, just as it did when we waited to interviewed by Caesar after our first Games. He’s been my dandelion in the spring. The promise that life can be good again, no matter how bad our losses.
Peeta presses a kiss onto the top of my head.
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he says.