[It’s colder than it was. The light enters his new suite enters at a lower angle, casting long, ugly shadows. He hasn't taken the time to rearrange this one. He doesn’t like the deep stripes, like bars across the furniture, and it would be almost nothing to move things, give the room better flow -- but every time he tries, his hands begin shaking. He holds them under the desk, out of sight of the console.]

I don’t know exactly how much time has passed.

[He can’t account for it, the gap in his memory. Oh, he remembers. Late summer sunlight, sitting at the table, gathering the pleats of fabric, pinning them in place. The chill light of the city, filtered through the water, as the turtle dove. And then nothing. He sits in front of the console, dressed far too lightly for the sudden onset of cold weather. But his face shows none of the near panic, the unanswered questions. Just a pleasant, even expression.]

It’s obvious that some has; at least several weeks. Is Finnick Odair still here, or maybe Katniss Everdeen?

[Katniss was gone, but maybe... There’s a sick twist of hope in his gut that he struggles to keep hidden. Katniss would know. If she’s here, she could answer the questions that he desperately needs to know the answers to. But he can’t hang his hopes on that.]

Well, even if they aren’t, I’m going to need to get my feet back under me. I’m opening up commissions for made-to-order clothing. My name is Cinna -- I previously worked in Favrielle no Eglantine’s dress shop, and I have several years of tailoring experience. I’d hope there is someone here still who can vouch for my work.

[But he doesn’t know -- it could well have been years. Where was he, in the time he can’t account for? Who had him? He swallows.]

Thank you.