Rick stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair dry, expecting to see Michonne still in bed waiting for him.

She wasn't.

"Michonne?" he said, eyes looking over the sheets. They were neatly made in only the way Michonne's hands could manage. He leaned out the bedroom door but didn't see a trace of her. On the baby monitor, Judith was still asleep in her crib, cradling a stuffed giraffe.

Rick secured the towel around his waist and went searching the house, calling Michonne's name. He even checked the unusual spaces, though he knew there was no way she'd tripped into the washing machine or locked herself in the refrigerator.

Standing in the middle of the living room, tension working in his jaw, Rick flipped over the couch cushions. He knew she wasn't there, but the incessant, worry-filled part of his brain needed to throw something.

It was then a glittering tube caught his eye, stark against the dark sofa liner. A roll of mints. He plucked it up, fingers cradling it in a way that would make even the most precious gemstone feel worthless.

Rick got dressed, took Judith into his arms, and started scouting the neighborhood. He passed by the front gate to ask Abraham if he'd seen Michonne leave, relieved to hear she hadn't. It would've made his search all the more difficult—and he wasn't looking to overturn every rock in Virginia today.

But it also meant he still didn't know where she'd gone.

On the way down the street, Rick ran into Sasha. From their brief conversation, Sasha said she hadn't seen Michonne since yesterday night when they shared a bottle of wine. "And they say wine's supposed to get better with age," she'd said with a roll of her eyes. When Sasha began favoring Judith with her attention, Rick politely excused himself—knowing Judith's adorable face would keep Sasha there forever if he didn't get away.

Rick checked the shooting range set up behind Gabriel's church only to find Carl and Enid taking turns with a pistol making more holes in Reg's walls than the target. Any other time, Rick would've gone over to give them some tips to help their aim—especially with Carl re-learning with the loss of his eye—but there was no time to spare with Michonne's whereabouts unknown.

Thinking maybe Michonne had felt a bit unwell, Rick swung by the clinic. Before he got to the door, he spotted Denise hanging bed sheets on a clothesline outside—not examining any patients.

The worry which had been nesting uncomfortably in Rick's chest started to burn right through him. Michonne had only been gone for an hour, but it already felt like a lifetime. Rick swiped fresh sweat from his forehead, trying to keep his breathing under control. He looked down at Judith.

"Where do you think mama went?" he said to her, more out of an attempt to distract himself than actually get an answer, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, his lips grew numb.

Had he just called Michonne Judith's mom?

It had felt so natural, normal—but that made the guilt swelling in his chest all the stronger. He'd never had that talk with Michonne—if she was willing to shoulder the responsibility of child-rearing alongside him, to be something more than just a friend to his kids.

And here he was applying labels without her say so. An incredibly important label at that.

Judith just cooed and babbled, gripping at the pocket on Rick's shirt, unaware of her father's blunder.

"You looking for Michonne?"

Rick spun around to see Rosita standing behind. She was wearing a bikini with a beach towel dropped over her arm.

"I saw her by the lake not long ago," Rosita continued without waiting for Rick to answer, nodding in the general direction. "She's probably still there."

Rick had passed by the lake earlier, but hadn't bothered to look too close. Now he felt stupid. It was so obvious. It was warmer outside than it had been in weeks, and people were taking that opportunity to lie out in the sun or take a swim.

"Thanks," Rick said. It might've looked strange to Rosita seeing him jogging briskly with a baby in his arms, but she had to understand the thought of catching Michonne in her swimsuit was a hell of a motivator—and one that also forced the "mom" issue to the back of his mind.

Rick slowed to a halt at the lake's shore. It was quiet. No laughter. No splashes. There were no picnic blankets splayed out, no swimmers in the water—and no Michonne. Rosita said she'd be here. Had she been swimming? Rick's pulse started to race. Had she drowned?

Rick didn't have to fret much longer. Judith squealed and pointed up. Rick followed the line of her finger, looking overhead—

And there was Michonne—sitting on a gnarled branch in the tree canopy several feet above him. The sunlight beaming through the leaves danced across her skin in star patterns. She was here, but the small, contended smile on Michonne's face told Rick she was also somewhere else at the same time. A large spiral notebook laid propped open in her lap.

The sight left Rick breathless as it did pacified, all the tension melting from his veins.

"Michonne," he called up to her.

She didn't hear him. She swayed back and forth to a silent beat. It was then Rick noticed the white wire trailing from a pair of earbuds running down her chest. She was listening to an iPod.

"Michonne," he tried again, a little louder.

She didn't look at him, still absorbed in whatever it was she was doing.

Rick sighed, rolling his eyes. He didn't need to bother her. She was safe in her tree world, listening to her music. Happy by the looks of it—and that's all that mattered. As he turned to walk away, Judith screamed—loudly.

Michonne flailed with a shriek of her own, tipping backward with a wheeling of arms. Dreading she might fall, Rick quickly set Judith down and prepared to catch her, but Michonne regained her balance. She looked down at them, catching her breath.

"Judy," she said.

"Sorry," Rick said, cringing at startling Michonne and ruining the beautiful scene. He plucked Judith back up from the grass, bouncing her. She wasn't crying, but she was getting fussy. Rick felt suddenly guilty for waking her up from her nap to go on a goosechase for a woman who clearly didn't want to be bothered. "You weren't at home."

Michonne's face relaxed. "Just needed some alone time," she said, her voice soft.

Rick chewed on the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't ask why she couldn't tell him that—or where she was going. Shrugging, he tilted his head, hoping he seemed indifferent. "Didn't figure you for a tree climber."

His eyes went back to the book that had somehow not fallen when he'd startled her. It must have been what took her elsewhere.

"What's that?" He said, pointing at the book.

"That—" Michonne slapped it shut and tucked it under her arm, "—shall remain private." She leapt down from the tree, landing on her feet with a cat-like grace.

"Private?" Rick couldn't help but pry just a little, feeling he deserved some answers after all his trouble. "Little big to be a diary."

"Who said it was a diary?"

If that was supposed to dissuade him from wanting to know what was in it, it didn't.

Without even asking, Michonne took the whining Judith into her arms, somehow doing so without dropping her notebook. It was such a seamless move—and Judith shushed immediately.

More than ever Rick was sure—Michonne had been a mother. Maybe it was wrong of him to assume she'd been—especially just because she was sweet with his kids. Still, instinct all but screamed it in his ear—and Rick's instincts had rarely proven wrong—

"Hey," Michonne whispered, snuggling her face into Judith's hair.

—But Rick didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. Because if Michonne was a mother—it meant she'd suffered the worst kind of pain. The kind of pain that never goes away.

The kind of pain he couldn't do anything to help.

The morning Michonne went out on a run with Rosita to find some copper for the solar grid, Rick woke up to find she'd taped a note to his forehead reading "OUT" in unnecessarily large print—even though they'd discussed the trip yesterday in fine detail. A small part of him was offended by it, but the greater part was oddly grateful all the same.

With Michonne gone, Carl at Mikey's house, and Judith napping in her crib, Rick figured he should be doing something productive, like helping Olivia take stock of the storeroom, performing routine maintenance on the guns in the armory, making a list of other things they'd need to repair the damaged solar panels—

But instead he took advantage of opportunity—and started ferreting all over the house for Michonne's spiral-bound book. The one that had rapt Michonne's attention in that tree a week ago. In the back of his mind, Rick called himself all sorts of names: snoop, creep, trust-breaker, but that didn't stop his mad hunt.

He justified it by saying it was for his own mental health. That book had been driving splinters into his brain since he saw it splayed open on her thighs. It was something she didn't want him to know about—and he should respect that, and he did—but what harm would come from just seeing what it was about? If it was filled with her innermost thoughts, he resolved he'd put it back and scrub the whole event from his brain.

… after scanning it for all instances of his name, of course.

Midway through throwing the laundry out of the hamper, he stopped himself with a chuckle. "What are you doing?" he said under his breath, a wave of shame crashing over him. Had his curiosity led him to throwing dirty underwear all over the house?

Sighing, he looked at the mess he'd made, turning over pillows and opening drawers. Well, it looked like his chores would be of the housekeeping variety today.

After putting all the clothes back in the hamper, Rick went down the stairs to start from the bottom up. Immediately, his gaze landed on the dining room table. On its surface were 4,000 puzzle pieces in hundreds of different states of being patched together. Eugene had handed Rick and Michonne the puzzle five weeks ago, promising them it would be a "stimulating mental enterprise."

It was supposed to be of Michelangelo's The Last Judgment, but looking at it in this state, one would never be able to tell.

Michonne had chided Rick about it for the past week. Now, it had become "a thing." He'd been stubborn enough to think he could finish it, and she just wanted the full use of the table again.

With a sigh, Rick went to grab the giant puzzle box from the hall closet—but was surprised to find it full of something. Something heavy.

Inside was Michonne's notebook.

Rick laughed under his breath. "You gotta be kidding me." Michonne must've stowed it away there, thinking Rick would never clean up his mess. Well, the joke was on her.

Before Rick could even mull over whether he should open it, he was flipping through the book's soft pages.

Michonne hadn't been lying. It definitely wasn't a diary. In fact, there was very little written at all.

It was filled with sketches. Drawings. Penciled illustrations that took his breath away. Collages of human expressions, imaginary creatures that looked like they were from one of Carl's video games, fruit, flowers tangled up in vases—

Rick took in deep breaths, staving off a wave of dizziness. His mind buzzed over how much he didn't know about Michonne. What had she done for a living? With this level of skill, she had to be an artist. Hell, maybe her work was even hanging in some museum somewhere.

When he flipped to the next page, Rick almost dropped the sketchbook. Laid out in front of him was a stunning portrait of Hershel—reconstructed with the most care and detail. Rick choked back a lump in his throat. He'd almost forgotten what he'd looked like. Without a photo to remember him, all that was left was the echo of his voice, fragments of his face—more like a placeholder for feelings and memories than a person. Now Hershel was alive in his mind with stunning clarity.

Rick turned the page before he got lost in the memory, only to traipse into another. Beth was smiling back at him. On the page beside her's was Noah. Both drawn with the same care as Hershel.

Not all the portraits were of the dead. There was a portrait of himself while he was sleeping. He couldn't help but admire how handsomely Michonne had portrayed him. There was also a sketch of Carl with both of his eyes a smile that would make the Mona Lisa proud.

Why didn't Michonne want him to know about this? Was it a surprise? Was she embarrassed?

After taking in a small doodle of Judith drinking from a bottle, Rick noticed a faint dog ear on the last page of the sketchbook. He turned to it. On the last page was a portrait, faintly outlined, of a child. Not even four years old. In the corner was a name written in elegant script. Andre.

All at once, Rick knew. This was her son. This was her baby.

In the margins, there were notes. About the rich, warm color of his eyes. About the blush in his cheeks when he laughed when she'd put on his socks. About the texture of his curly hair under her fingertips. All the fine details she couldn't capture in graphite alone, but she didn't want to lose.

Rick's hand ghosted over the child's illustrated cheek, daring not to smudge the work. He couldn't believe it. This beautiful child—Michonne's beautiful child—had been here. Andre had been here, and he had been loved so much. Had been the center of his mother's world.

And then Andre wasn't here anymore.

Rick closed his eyes and shut the sketchbook. Michonne was strong, he'd known that since he'd met her, but to carry on after enduring this? She was so much stronger than he could even understand. No person should suffer the loss of a child—let alone the woman he loved more than his own life.

Feeling guilty for having pried, Rick snuck the journal back where he found it, running his hands over the puzzle box as though he could take back what he'd done.

But as he continued with his chores, his thoughts kept drifting back to the smiling child's face in the back of Michonne's sketch book. So faint, like he was fading away.

When Rick worked his way into the bathroom, emptying the garbage can, an empty tube of toothpaste flipped out onto the floor.

Maybe there was something he could do to help.

As Rick pulled the car into Alexandria, he noticed Michonne waiting for them with her arms crossed beside the gate.

"Hey," Rick called out to her through the open driver-side window as he parked the car. Tobin slid the gate closed.

Michonne flashed a post-it note at Rick. It said "OUT" in unnecessarily large font. "Cute," she said, trying not to look amused—and failing.

"I thought so," Rick said with a smile. He'd made sure to tape it to her forehead before he left.

"So where'd you go?" Michonne asked, looking into the backseat of the car for clues.

Aaron chose that moment to get out of the passenger-side. "I needed some framing materials. For my photographs. Rick was kind enough to accompany me."

"We went by Frederick's Art Supply," Rick said, stepping out. He went around to the back of the car and popped the trunk. "We got all sorts of things."

"Oh?" Michonne said, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah. Pastels, pencils, oils, brushes, sponges, hell, I don't even know what this thing is—" Rick pulled out a spray can. Something called fixative. "Even got Crayola Crayons—you know, in case Judy wants to spice up the walls."

"Well," Michonne said, putting her hands behind her back. "Just know you're the one who's going to be scrubbing all that crayon off the walls."

Rick smiled back at her. "Noted."

Later that night, when Rick went back to check on the crate of art supplies in the storeroom, he couldn't help but smile as he noticed all the pastels were gone.

The next time Rick stepped out of the shower to find the bed neatly-made and Michonne nowhere in sight, he didn't go looking.

Michonne would come to him when she was ready.