but all we count is sentiment [yoya blitz]

a memory stays to guide the way, and whisper
don't lose sight, don't deny
we are leaves meant to fall
there's a meaning to all our


The museum smells like bleach and stale vanilla-scented air freshener.

It was probably meant to be disorienting, with the flickering fluorescent lights and tangle of corridors and wide-screen panels buzzing all across the walls. One of them was looping a five-second clip of a boy flipping a penny through the air; on another, Wyatt and Kirito clashed against a clockwork background, Wyatt's knife embedding itself in Kirito's eye as Kirito's axe slid between his ribs. A little slice of what every building in the Capitol must be like, but right here in our town square.

At least it's not crowded today.

I head down one of the side passageways, sketchbook clutched across my chest more for comfort than out of any sort of expectation there'd be something in this forsaken building worth jotting down. There were touchscreens spaced every so often along the walls, and a scattering of other visitors pulling up old tributes or gushing over shirtless holograms of Teddy Ursa. I come to a stop in one of the emptier stretches, where there was no one else in sight but an older woman poking at the screen in front of her, switching between footage of several games I didn't recognize.

The screen lights up when I approach it.

Select a tribute...

Teddy Ursa

Mackenzie Pryce

Chester Meisenzahl

Faline Varley

Parson Cham

I stare at the little blinking cursor, frozen but for the million thoughts that rushed forward, all at once. How much of the image would be him - would I hear my brother's voice, or some abomination like the zombies they'd brought to un-life on the skiing slopes that year? A distorted version of Jackson, screaming Monster at that little girl over and over again? What did they know of the stories he'd read to us, the times he'd comforted me when I'd come home crying, the little things he'd explain? How much of Jackson did I remember, really?

What am I even going to say, to a brother we buried nearly ten years ago?

jakc

Evan Jackson

Jackson Samuels

Jack Imberline

Jacob Wickham

James Mocking

I fumble the letters, hands shaking as I reach towards the keyboard; with one click the ghost of a young boy slides into view.

"Hey," he says. "I'm Evan Ja--"

"Sorry," I blurt out. How do you go back to the menu on this thing? "I, I was ..." I trail off. How do I make you go away seemed rather rude to say, even if the boy was a hologram.

"Are you all right?" the boy - Evan - asks in the same thin, high-pitched voice.

"Yeah." I brace myself against the edges of the screen and look towards the 57th Games tribute. His face is soft and gentle, no less youthful in spite of his malnourished frame and long, ragged hair. He's so young, I think. And the only fact I know about him is that he killed his district partner. "I'm just trying to -"

Evan abruptly disappears as soon as my finger brushes against the backspace key, leaving nothing but a stretch of blank wall that feels too empty now, feels like it's missing something.

"- find my brother." The words dissolve in the empty air. There's a hollowness in my stomach, because I wish I could've... I don't know what I'd wanted to do. It'd just seemed wrong for somebody so realistic to blink and collapse in on itself, like a three-dimensional version of a TV screen switching off.

I make my way back to the menu, heart still pounding, taking a little more deliberation and care with each tap.

Jackson shows up this time, wearing the outfit he'd had on for his last reaping, and I'm almost surprised he isn't all that much taller than me anymore. Behind him, the wall shifts, the gray stone and thin sliver of sky of the rift valley slowly fading in.

"Hey sis," he says, one hand reaching out for me. His hand goes straight through my body, but he doesn't seem to notice. I step back. It's not him, but it still is his voice. I bite down on one sleeve of my sweatshirt, trying to hold back the tears.

Change background...

Rift Valley (default)

Quarry

Cornucopia

Browse...

I tap the Browse button. Of course there'd only be Games backgrounds, wave after wave of beautiful places that only reminded you of who'd died in those places. I scroll through it briefly before settling on a calm, inviting ocean bearing at least a passing resemblance to the massive lake that stretched across an entire edge of the district. That's better. At least now I'm not standing in the place where he died.

I sit down against the wall, where a row of speakers on the ceiling were pumping out the sound of sea breezes and crashing waves.

"Jackson," I turn towards the brother I can't touch, "tell me a story."

seeds of eulogy to sow along with dreams
fill the need that can leave us grieving alone