A/N: Hello. I've been writing fanfic since 2011, but this is my first attempt writing for "The Walking Dead." This story takes place after "Coda".

I definitely don't own 'The Walking Dead'.

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Craving isolation, Daryl sat on the curb across the street, watching Rick and Glenn bury Beth as Maggie wept uncontrollably. Desperate to control his emotions, he bit his lower lip and tried to put Beth in a box along with the souls of the others that had touched his life, his brother Merle, Hershel, Bob, Sophia. Each soul resting in little boxes, each attached to a long chain wrapped around his heart. Reaching up and wiping a tear from his cheek, he pushed the box containing Beth into the pile of boxes growing in his soul and finally stood up.

Glancing at the hospital, he shook his head slowly and fought the urge to go back inside that supposed place of refuge and take care of things. Feeling a hand touch his arm, Daryl moved his gaze to the hand that was stroking his arm. His voice barely above a murmur, "I hate them."

Squeezing his arm, Carol sighed, "I know."

"They killed Beth and they hurt you." A tear escaping his lashes, he chose to ignore it, "They wear uniforms and claim that they're protecting the past for the future but what a laugh. They're no better than the governor."

Her eyes on Maggie, Carol agreed, "Yes, that's true."

Clearing his throat, Daryl continued to stare at her hand as she slowly moved it up and down his arm, "I'm running out of family. I'm not sure what's going to happen to me when I'm the only one left."

Snorting, Carol stopped moving her hand, "Is that right? Are you going to outlive all of us?"

Turning his gaze to Carol's twinkling eyes, Daryl smiled, "Yep."

Wrapping her arm around him his arm, Carol assured him, "Over my dead body."

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Sharpening his knife, Daryl concentrated on the wet stone and how the blade moved against the cool gray stone. The gentle weeping coming from the other room was a quiet reminder that his world had lost another anchor. At one time, he world had contained just one anchor, his brother Merle. Having no one that he could count on except his brother he'd never learned to trust anyone else.

After the plague, after he'd found himself part of a group of people that he'd started to consider family, he'd found many anchors to help keep him grounded. In his wildest dreams, he'd never hoped to find a family that would care about him but that's exactly what had happened. He'd fought very hard not to become attached to anyone in the group. He'd considered them as a means of survival but slowly each member of the group had earned his trust and with it a small piece of his heart.

He'd never admit that to anyone, but Rick, Carl, Michonne, Maggie, Beth, Carol, everyone in their group had earned a place in his heart, then slowly, one by one he started to lose them. At first it was the child Sophia. He had a soft spot for children because of his childhood and it pained him that the child had been lost to them. Fighting to keep his distance, he'd watched Carol grieve silently for her child and because her grief was genuine, her love real, he'd found himself growing attached to her. He didn't want the connection, he didn't think he needed it, but in the end the connection was there. The little boxes buried in his soul, the boxes keeping his memories safe, those little boxes started to grow and with them forged a chain from them to the group he now considered his family.

Each box, a reminder that life was short and in this new world a guarantee that the end would be brutal and in some cases horrifying.

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Sitting down next to him, Carol watched Daryl slowly move his knife across the stone, light gray sliding on dark gray. "What are you thinking about?"

His hand becoming still, Daryl sighed, "Nothing."

Hugging her knees, Carol listened to the murmuring of a voice in the next room. Soon the weeping stopped and with it a kind of relief.

Wrapping his stone is a cloth and placing it in his bag, Daryl placed his knife in it's sheath and remarked, "I have these little boxes in my head I guess."

Curious, Carol asked, "What do you mean? What kind of boxes?"

Leaning his elbows on his knees, he stared at the ground, "When someone I . . . when someone dies, a little box pops into my head. The box . . . . the person who died is in the box. I close the lid and I push the box in the back. . . Is that normal?"

Pursing her lips, Carol thought about it. "Maybe . . . it's a good way to protect your sanity."

Biting his lower lip, Daryl straightened up, "I don't have a box for my father."

Nodding her head, Carol smiled, "No, I don't imagine you would."

Glancing at her, Daryl frowned, "You don't have little boxes do you?"

Shaking her head, Carol tried to explain, "In the past, when someone in my family died, I thought about them being in heaven. They weren't suffering anymore and it gave me a little comfort."

Nodding his head, Daryl replied, "I don't think anyone in my family made it there."

Snorting, Carol leaned against her friend, "No, I imagine not. I'm not so sure some of my family made it either."

Chuckling, Daryl placed his hand on her knee, "Anyways, that's why I have my boxes. They're safe in there. They aren't in hell or heaven. They're in these little boxes and they're safe. I don't have to worry about them because I know that as long as I'm alive their little boxes are safe."

Placing her hand over his, Carol smiled, "I understand. That's nice. I like it."

Pleased, Daryl squeezed her knee, "Good. Just make sure I don't have a box with you in it."

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I hope you found my story entertaining. Let me know what you think of it. Thank you.