I cannot sleep tonight, but I feel Peeta's heart beating against me and regained some composure. I forced myself to sit up and sighed at the nip of winter through the now aging window. Peeta's offered to replace it, but I always tell him no. We sleep in the small cottage that was build decades ago next to my father's favorite pond. We replaced most of the exterior, rotting from the years neglected in the woods, but this is the only window that wasn't shattered or too damaged, so we kept it. It's early morning and nothing much of the fire remains but the ambers slowly fading away under the charred remains of what was once a cedar tree. The sweet scent still dances in the air as I pass the kitchen on my way to go check on Willow and Rye. She is now nine, and resembles my mother too close. Some days I cannot look at her without the nightmares flashing behind my tightly squeezed eye lids even in the midst of day. She is smart though, she loves the plants and the flowers that grow upon them. I notice the now dying flowers that she has been tending to trying to keep alive through the frigid months and smile, Rye was right. As young as he may be, almost six, he argued with Willow that the plants couldn’t survive the winter. He doesn’t take much interest to nature, unless you are talking about the animals in it. Peeta's been pushing for me to take him hunting, but I refuse to. Especially now with the snow halfway to his waist. He loves to play with my bow, even if he can't draw it back. In the fall, when there's just enough leaves on the ground, we will sit out by the pond watching the trees trying