Thick, heavy fog had settled over the plains of Southern Georgia late that evening. The veil was so dense that it was impossible to see more than five feet in any direction. It was disconcerting to look into such a white, endless void. Fortunately, there were those who lived behind the safety of large, concrete walls. The colony of strangers residing in the prison outside of old Senoia, Georgia had been afforded such luck.

Early that Sunday morning, a torrent of rain had poured down from above. It had come as a blessing of sorts to the sweat-covered colonists living within the prison. Before that brooding storm, rain had not kissed the land for nearly one month. The crops growing beyond the iron gates had nearly withered from Mother Nature's neglect. Any living creature, be them plant or otherwise, needed water to thrive. Had the rains come much later, the residents guarded behind the gates would have been forced to move on. It was a scary thought to entertain indeed.

What the showers had left behind was the impenetrable, foreboding mist. Though it shrouded the night, there was a certain hope that it would disappear with the dawn. Daylight had always been a source of solace before the zombie outbreak had begun. In the following days, it was all that survivors could hold on to. No matter how safe the prison residents felt behind their walls, nighttime still brought with it an air of uneasiness.

There was one, however, who seemed not to fear. Standing on the back staircase overlooking the courtyard was a blonde-haired woman smoking a cigarette. The dim glow smoldering at the end of the tobacco rod lit her lips perfectly. Taking a long drag from the filter, she paused briefly to savor the burning, ashen sensation. Moments later, she released the smoke into the darkness surrounding her. The vapors rose and danced through the mist until the two became one.

Just as she took her last toke, the hour on her watch ticked past midnight. She had scarcely noticed the time since straying from her cell. Truthfully, she had been unable to fall asleep. For hours she had laid upon her cot, eyes trained on the concrete ceiling above her. Rarely was she so restless; perhaps there was something weighing on her conscious. What had she to feel so anxious about?

With nothing left to smoke, the woman removed the cigarette butt from her mouth. She carelessly tossed it onto the cement below and followed it with her gaze. The late night indulgence had left her feeling satisfied, yet ashamed. She hadn't smoked a cigarette in almost eight years. Bidding her guilt away, she exhaled with a sigh and lifted her eyes to the sky. She could see nothing above her – no stars, no moonlight – nothing. It was then that she felt an overwhelming lonesomeness within her. She was, perchance, the sole colonist awake at the prison.

"Whatcha doin' out here by yourself, Tabs?"

The blonde turned over her right shoulder to view whoever was behind her. Had she been more coherent, she might have been startled by their sudden appearance. Inhaling deeply, Tabatha straightened her spine and turned to face the newly arrived. Her expression held little emotion regarding their presence. She was neither overjoyed nor displeased. She was simply neutral.

"Thinking, mostly." Tabatha shrugged and slid her hands into her pockets. "I should be asking you the same thing, Daryl."

The two looked at one another for quite some time. Not a single word was uttered between them during their moment of silence. All that could be heard then was the distant chirping of crickets beyond the fences. Oddly enough, the absence of conversation was rather comfortable. Neither of them felt the need to interrupt the stillness.

When a considerable amount of time had passed, Daryl dropped his head and looked away. He had been maintaining eye contact with the ex-soldier until that point. He found comfort in doing so; there was a quaint quality of resolve behind them. Tabatha was both disciplined and determined. He could easily appreciate her capability to maintain such a balance. He had scarcely met another with such a level head.

Perhaps it was Daryl's intuition which nagged at his thoughts. Tabatha seemed…different to him then. She appeared unsettled and slightly shaken. Whatever had caused her such discomfort was a mystery to him. Frankly, it was none of his business. He knew as much but couldn't help his own curiosity. Fortunately, Tabatha chose to speak before he had a chance to question her.

"Just how long have you been standing there?" Tabatha crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

Daryl smirked and lifted his chin. "Long enough to figure out where my last smoke went."

In spite of herself, a redness rose into Tabatha's pale cheeks. She hadn't expected such a confrontation that evening. Truthfully, she hadn't known whom the cigarette had belonged to. She had found the lone fag inside of a nearly empty Marlboro carton. The small box had been left outside of Daryl's cell, but she hadn't made the connection. Her preoccupation was largely to blame for her negligence. Tabatha felt guilty, yet justified.

"…I didn't see your name on it." Tabatha tightened her arms across her chest.

"Do you always take things that don't belong to you?" Daryl's grin only widened at her sarcasm.

A soft sigh escaped Tabatha's lips as she beheld the rugged, Southern man. The sight of his crooked, coy smile only caused her to return the expression. The corners of her lips twitched and rose until she was beaming back at him. The woman uttered a small, soft chuckle and looked away.

"…No. I just needed a smoke."

As quickly as it had come, Tabatha's smirk disappeared. She turned her back to Daryl and, without a word, leaned over the railing. She laid her elbows atop it and laced her fingers together. While she did not wish to appear vulnerable, she found herself becoming less guarded with every passing minute. Tabatha was tired and fading fast.

Seeing the woman so disheveled made Daryl feel unsettled. He inhaled deeply and put his hands on his hips. He felt as if he had done something wrong. He wouldn't be able to part ways with her now. Against his better judgment, he found himself moving closer to Tabatha's side. Daryl knew better than to pry; regardless, he had a growing need to ease her restlessness.

"Mind telling me why?" Daryl paused for a moment. "Not that it's any of my business. Just didn't know that you smoked, is all."

Daryl's concern was met with a small shrug. Tabatha watched from her peripheral vision as he stood by her right. He had sidled up alongside of her without so much as a reason. He seemed perturbed by her attitude. Tabatha couldn't fathom why. He and she were friendly, but they were hardly familiar enough for such intimacy. Even so, she felt comforted by Daryl's company. Tabatha found herself wanting to confide in him. She had nothing to lose or gain in doing so; what was the harm?

"It's my son's birthday." Tabatha turned toward him slowly. "He would have been six years old today."

The blonde fell silent and looked away again. She shifted her weight from her right leg to her left and continued staring out into the gloom. Oddly enough, she didn't feel any different post confession. Tabatha felt just as empty, just as somber. Shaking her head, Tabatha silently dismissed whatever Daryl was preparing to say. She didn't want his pity; she didn't need it.

"You don't have to say anything. I would prefer it if you didn't."

Against her wishes, Daryl decided to speak. "Well I can't just say nothing. I didn't even know that –"

"Yeah. I don't talk about them much." Tabatha said monotonously.

"Them?" Daryl turned to face her.

"I have – had two children." Tabatha paused and turned to face him in return. "A boy and a girl."

Another silence fell over the friends. It was less comfortable and very heavy. Each party felt as if they had crossed a boundary. Daryl wished that he hadn't delved into her personal matters; Tabatha wished that she hadn't confided in him. There was nothing that either of them could do or say to alleviate the awkwardness. The tension between them would subside in due time.

Tabatha met Daryl's eyes and established a connection with him. Though she said nothing, such a gesture was her way of showing acceptance. She inhaled deeply, held her breath, and slowly turned her head away. Looking out into the distorted courtyard didn't bring her much comfort; but then again, nothing ever did. She leaned over the railing again, elbows perched on the cold, steel stair. Her posture looked very relaxed: slumped shoulders, curved spine, loose knees. Her stance read of false security. It could be attributed, instead, to tiredness.

Daryl cleared his throat and put a hand on the back of his neck. "…Look, Tabs. I'm real sorry about pesterin' ya." He mimicked her and dangled his forearms over the rail. "It's none of my business."

Small, hot, drops began to dot the white concrete beneath the stair. They fell slowly at first and were hardly noticeable. Few living people cried for the deceased; death was around every turn. There were those who had seldom shed a tear preceding the incident, even. Tabatha had scarcely sobbed before the ruin of mankind. It was slightly unsettling, then, when she was moved to tears.

"…My son would have been six years old today," Tabatha croaked softly, "I just needed a smoke."

At first, Daryl hadn't noticed what had ensued to his left. The rugged man had been too busy leering into the blackness. He had been torn about his presence – whether to stay or to go. A few seconds had passed before he became aware of what Tabatha had said. Casting his gaze to her profile, he noticed an unusual glimmer upon Tabatha's cheek. It bothered him deeply to see her in such a state. They weren't intimately involved; even so, he felt obligated to coddle her.

"Don' go on cryin'…" Daryl frowned and shook his head. "It's gonna be alright. You'll see."

Without her permission, Daryl came nearer to her. He edged closer to her until they were arm to arm, hip to hip. He gave her shoulder a soft nudge and fashioned a grin. To acknowledge his presence, Tabatha nudged him back gently. She clenched her laced fingers together tightly and continued to look away. She appreciated his concern but didn't quite know how to accept it. It had been a long time since she had sought security from another living person.

Withholding a snuffle, Tabatha bobbed her head. Her small nod was a signal that she understood him. Daryl could reassure her all he liked, but nothing would ever be "alright" again. Unaware of herself, Tabatha raised her bare forearm and slid her nose the length of it. Had she been afforded a tissue, she would have used that instead. Once finished, Tabatha lowered her arm to her side. She didn't seem at all bothered by her uncouth gesture.

"It's hard to believe that." Tabatha choked and gripped the rail. "Some things are just…so hard to let go of."

"I hear that," Daryl agreed with a snort, "like my brother. Lost him a few months ago."

The mood quickly turned somber again. Daryl sighed roughly and shook his head. He hadn't wanted to dampen anything further. He had had good intentions when speaking of Merle. He had meant to ease Tabatha's melancholy by comparing his own. Daryl hadn't foreseen the unresolved emotions clouding his thoughts. He thought that he had made peace with his brother's passing. Apparently, he had not. Daryl began to frown and become lost in a state of grief.

"I'm sorry." Tabatha swallowed coarsely. "I have to constantly remind myself that I'm not alone; others have lost people too."

"Yeah but he wasn't my kid." Daryl interjected harshly. "He brought it upon himself."

"Family is family. Doesn't matter who or why." Tabatha pushed away from the railing.

"I guess." Daryl shrugged and did the same. "…C'mon. Let's go back inside."

Exiting abruptly, Daryl spun on his heels and reentered the concrete structure. His footfalls were heavy and very direct. It seemed as if he had somewhere to be. Tabatha was left standing alone in the misty void until the sound of his footsteps could no longer be heard. Sliding her hands in her pockets, she too made the move to leave the staircase. She passed through the threshold, unbolted the steel door, and let it swing closed behind her. It was then that she remembered the strangely fitting, overused cliché…

"Tis better to have loved and lost: than never to have loved at all."