Alright, this is something I have debated on posting for a while now.

Because the writers have not given us exact information on what events took place during the time skip between seasons two and three, besides some brief dialogue between characters, I got curious. Of course, my curiosity led to ideas and these ideas blossomed into this. What this particular fanfic basically contains is my take on what happened over those weary, eight months (added with my OC of course) and the writing found here is all original content other than the TV show characters. I am really stretching my skills as a writer here and stepping out of my comfort zone, so this will only be a few chapters at most.

Please enjoy – feedback is great, too. :D

*I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.*

"Losing our minds,

With cabin fever.

Shut in confined spaces,

Lost in the dark."

~ Daughter: Winter

Chapter 1: Late Night

It's late in the night.

Cold – the usual.

The wind presses up against the small house, screaming and howling. We found this place by accident and it is not ideal, but it's still a place, so we took it.

It has been a month since the farm, maybe two, but who's counting? I don't want to know how many days of hell we've endured because there is even more than that number in the future. Fall has been gone and winter is beginning, that's all there is to know.

I'm stretched out in a bathtub, loaded gun in lap, and my backpack is serving as a nice pillow. This bathroom isn't the best bedroom but it'll do for now. Lori got the couch because of her pregnancy and the others took the floor of a few different rooms; I just chose from what was left. There are no beds in this house.

It's dark inside the bathroom besides some moonlight pouring in from the window to my left. The air is bitter, wind still screaming, and my bones are hurting at their core. This weather makes me feel old – not that I am, for I'm only twelve; not even close. Actually, I'll be thirteen soon. When's my birthday again? Oh, God . . . February, yeah, that sounds about right. February 7th, 1998. So about another month or two . . .

The sink is dripping even though there is no electricity, plumbing – just some leaky pipes.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

I stare at the door's dark silhouette sitting just out of the moon's reach. I remember closing it earlier.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. The wind picks up something and it crashes down.

Winters in Georgia are never this mean. Then again, maybe they are. Maybe they always raged on like this, but we were too protected by the heaters and heavy coats to ever realize it. Now look at us – at me – freezing under two shirts, a coat, jeans, combat boots, and fingerless gloves while lying in a bathtub. A fucking bathtub.

Snow is usually a gift for us Georgia folks because we live down south where it doesn't like to touch; but if it comes this year, I don't – I don't really know how we're going to survive that. We all aren't used to snow-cold weather, which scares me.

Sighing, I lean back into the backpack; stare up at the ceiling in hopes to catch at least an hour of sleep, two or three if I'm lucky. I think about where we yesterday around this time. Me? Well, I was sleeping, managed to do some of that last night. We were in a barn, stayed there a couple days, and although I hate barns because of past experiences, I still dealt with it. Until this morning when Rick made the decision to head out and we jumped into the vehicles, kept going up to he swerved off the road at this place.

The bathroom door opens and I scold myself for not paying more attention. My gun is up but before my thumb can brush across the safety switch to turn it off, there is a guff voice,

"Just me," Daryl. I put the gun down.

"Thought you had watch," I say as he removes the crossbow. The dripping sink grabs his attention for a moment and he glances at the broken appliance.

Daryl sits down on the tile beside my makeshift bed, huffing, "T took over."

"Oh."

"You cold?"

He is wearing the poncho, a horse blanket we found in the barn's tack room. I can smell the horse scent from here, I like it. Reminds me of better days . . . "Always."

I hear Daryl sigh. He tosses something over the hard tub wall and it lands in my lap. I pick it up, moving it in the moonlight so I can see. A beanie. "Here," he says, "found it in the closet." The beanie is a cream color and I run a finger over the wool material; tell him "thanks" because that is what you're supposed to do. Sitting up, I position it over my messy brunette hair and red ears, my aching body protesting in the process – I feel a bit better.

Settling down on my back once more, I hear Daryl sniffle, "This poncho smells like damn horse ass."

My eyes close because this is better than being alone, I softly chuckle to myself.

And then I remember, "You ever gonna take me out hunting like you said?"

"Gotta get'cha a bow first, kid. Then we'll go out . . . and it'll all be good."

Bow usage is completely foreign to me but I've always wanted to learn how to hunt and track, Daryl knows. Just in case . . . "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

It gets quiet other than the wind and sink; I am used to them by now, though. Opening my eyes, there is one more nagging element I decide to share as I squint in the dark. Daryl is leant up against the side of the tub, his back to me. The dim moonlight shows he's staring at the sink. "Daryl?"

His gaze flickers away. "Hmm?"

"I don't like being alone."

A pause. "Me neither."

It's easy to push people away, maybe even too easy. Daryl and me – we've both done it. But after a while of being alone, lost in your own thoughts with nothing but yourself to talk to, the need to stay away becomes scary. I am afraid of being alone, always have been, but somehow that need still lingers. Can't explain it, can't get rid of it, it's just always there; always will be.

Because running is so much easier than talking.

Daryl informs me that he has watch again soon, says I should sleep. Should do a lot of things.

That sink should also shut up because it is driving him mad, I can tell.

But besides the sink, screaming wind, cold world, tired bones, and watch – Daryl is still in the same spot every time I wake up throughout the night and even when dawn hits.

He never leaves.

Well, it's a start at least . . .

~ Rainy