Shayari Bazar

The soft leather feels soothing and for a moment I’m calmed by the memories of the hours spent wrapped in it. Then, inexplicably, my palms begin to sweat. A strange sensation creeps up the back of my neck. I whip around to face the room and find it empty. Tidy. Everything in its place. There was no sound to alarm me. What, then?My nose twitches. It’s the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved cousins, is a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.And I know immediately who’s sent it to me.President Snow.When I begin to gag at the stench, I back away and clear out. How long has it been here? A day? An hour? The rebels did a security sweep of the Victor’s Village before I was cleared to come here, checking for explosives, bugs, anything unusual. But perhaps the rose didn’t seem noteworthy to them. Only to me.Downstairs, I snag the game bag off the chair, bouncing it along the floor until I remember it’s occupied. On the lawn, I frantically signal to the hovercraft while Buttercup thrashes. I jab him with my elbow, but this only infuriates him. A hovercraft materializes and a ladder drops down. I step on and the current freezes me until I’m lifted on board.Gale helps me from the ladder. “You all right?”“Yeah,” I say, wiping the sweat off my face with my sleeve.He left me a rose! I want to scream, but it’s not information I’m sure I should share with someone like Plutarch looking on. First of all, because it will make me sound crazy. Like I either imagined it, which is quite possible, or I’m overreacting, which will buy me a trip back to the drug-induced dreamland I’m trying so hard to escape. No one will fully understand—how it’s not just a flower, not even just President Snow’s flower, but a promise of revenge—because no one else sat in the study with him when he threatened me before the Victory Tour.Positioned on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished business. It whispers, I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now.