The metallic scrape of the door was louder and harsher than usual as it dragged across the concrete floor, cutting through the thick pool of blood that had formed at the base of the threshold. A flurry of ripples skittered across the liquid's slowly expanding surface, which radiated in a sticky circle around Milton's skull, moving like a living, formless entity. Andrea was captivated by the minute details of her surroundings that gradually came into focus. She had missed so much during the frenzied moments that had led up to the present. Perhaps it was because she was no longer living on borrowed time that she was able to appreciate the small wonders she had nearly forgotten about, like the serene beauty of a ripple across the water, or the way the dim, fluorescent light shadowed the contours of Michonne's face.

She heard Rick's footsteps come to a halt just outside the door and felt the cold metal of his gun pressing like ice into her heated palm. The infection was spreading. It coursed through her veins like fire through oil, ravenous. The hunger was something Andrea had never understood until she experienced it firsthand. Even in its basest, most primal form, the infection was ravenous. It wanted to eat her alive and then turn her into a creature that would perpetuate the cycle. Hunger was the world's new driving force. Whether it was a hunger to kill, a hunger to eat, or a hunger to survive, it was the only impulse that mattered anymore. Humanity was no longer viable in a world that was less than human.

Andrea had hoped for something different. She had spent her time searching for the slivers of goodness that she believed still existed in other people. She had held on to hope. She had tried, and she had failed.

Regardless, she was confident in the fact that she had honored Dale's memory. Not a day had passed that she hadn't thought about the imprint the man had left on her life. He did not condone the senseless bloodshed that had been wrought upon the world by the apocalypse, and Andrea had done everything in her power to mold his mindset into a lifestyle that he would be proud of. A trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she realized that she would be reunited with him soon. Where she was going, there was no violence, no biters, no murderers, no hatred, and no anger. She wouldn't have to fear for her life every time she turned a corner. She wouldn't have to constantly be on the run. She could finally rest and be at peace.

It was faint, but she could hear Amy calling her like she'd done so many times in the past. "Andrea, dinner's ready," her little sister would yell from the bottom of the stairs. Andrea would emerge from under her pile of homework some twenty minutes later (usually by the time everyone was finished eating), exhausted, and attempt to make casual small talk with her family before retreating back to her room to fill another night with relentless studying. It was strange to think that law school had once been her most pressing concern. Given the opportunity, she would redo each and every night she'd wasted in her textbooks and rush down the stairs into Amy's embrace when summoned. She would spend as much time with her family as she could and savor every moment of conversation, no matter how bland. Was this the second chance she'd been waiting for? "Andrea," Amy beckoned, "don't keep us waiting." It was time to go home.

Michonne's sobs brought Andrea back to reality. She felt the woman's comforting grip tighten around her hand, the other cradling her aching, feverish head. Why was Michonne crying? Her tears made no sense to Andrea. After all the pain, anguish, and suffering, she was finally free. She had found a way to outrun the terrors bleeding from the pages of horror novels into the real world. If anything, she grieved for everyone forced to continue living in such a world. Death and violence were all little Judith would ever know. Someday, Andrea prayed, the group would find a place safe enough for them to break away from the bloody mire of the walkers and start anew. She wanted to believe that hope still existed beyond the four walls of Philip's torture chamber. It was ironic, Andrea mused, that the last place on God's green earth that she would ever see was the physical manifestation of humanity's evil, hatred, and distortion. True to her nature, she still managed to see the good in the bleakest of circumstances, shining like glittering lights in the waning darkness. Or were those Michonne's eyes? She couldn't tell anymore.

She smiled, the silence surrounding the two women amplifying the quietest of sounds as Andrea lightly squeezed Michonne's hand. There was one more thing she had to do before returning home.

"Michonne," she said, her voice weak, airy, and warped through the throbbing in her head, "I'm sorry—"

"Don't," Michonne interrupted sternly, her tone thick with the emotion she was trying so desperately to hold back. "Not now."

Andrea raised her hand to rest over the darker one that had captured her cheek, her eyes tired as she gazed matter-of-factly into Michonne's. Her expression was gentle, but left no room for argument, not even from the hardened warrior crouching in front of her. It was obvious that Michonne was reaching her breaking point. Andrea wanted to reach out and console her with every fiber of her being, to tell her that everything would be okay. But she couldn't. She couldn't make a promise that she couldn't keep. She remembered the sting of losing Amy as though it were a fresh wound, and couldn't forget the dark, frightening place her mind had entered shortly after. She could only hope that Michonne did not follow in her footsteps. She curled her fingers around Michonne's, the woman's skin feeling unnaturally cool against her flushed face. "Please. I'm out of time."

A cascade of tears dripped from Michonne's chin, but she said nothing.

Andrea inhaled as deeply as she could, and let out a shaky, labored sigh. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult as time passed. She tried not to think about it. "I didn't choose Philip over you. That wasn't why I stayed. I need you to understand that."

There was a slight pause, during which Andrea quietly observed Michonne before she continued. The habitually stoic and composed woman was unraveling before her very eyes, struggling to digest her words. Andrea couldn't imagine what was going through the warrior's mind as she gave breath to her dying demand. She didn't expect forgiveness. She was far too proud to think that she'd done anything to warrant Michonne's pardon, and she didn't want to be forgiven out of pity, sadness, or regret. She didn't want anything she hadn't earned. Still, Michonne deserved to know why she'd done what she'd done. She owed her that much.

"I just wanted to believe that there was something better for us. Somewhere that we could feel safe. I wanted to believe that there was still some good left in the world." A wry, crooked grin cracked her lips and vanished an instant later. "And there was. I let it walk out the door without me."

"Andrea—"

"Amy's calling me. I can hear her."

Michonne stifled another sob as she watched Andrea maneuver the barrel of Rick's gun fluidly to her temple. She wasn't afraid. Michonne held her by the shoulder, tracing reassuring circles into the worn, bloody fabric of her shirt. Nobody could make it alone, and she wasn't alone. Not anymore.

"I love you."

Bang.