Annie approached the box carefully, almost as if she forgot what it was…who was inside it. But then, as calmly as someone would crawl into bed, she lifted her knee and climbed on top of it, dark green eyes never leaving the surface. It was as if she could see right through the steel…like she could see Finnick.
Slowly, her fingers smoothed over the lid, and Annie pressed her cheek against the cold casket. As she closed her eyes tightly, I could almost see the emotion sweep over her…as if it suddenly manifested into a visible tidal wave from her and Finnick’s home district, crashing down and consuming her and the coffin entirely.
He was gone.
His pieces couldn’t be put back together, not the way that Annie’s could when the Capitol shattered them and Finnick took care of her. He was beyond repair, beyond hope. Nothing could change that.
He was really gone.
We could hear the sobs now. Annie wrapped her arm around the case, her lips moving just barely as she spoke to Finnick through her tears. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I stopped trying to figure it out after a few seconds—both because I didn’t think it was my business, and because I was sure that the words I thought I did hear…just couldn’t be right.
It wasn’t until months later that I realized this wasn’t just Annie’s final hug with Finnick. Back then, I didn’t know that between that metal lid and her body was their child, cradled between their souls. I didn’t know it was a family embrace.
I didn’t know, and I’m glad, because it would’ve just made it harder to watch.