DISCLAIMER: The Walking Dead universe isn't mine. The characters aren't mine. I just asked them to come to dinner and they decided to tell me a story.
They had taken shelter in an old barn some four months after losing the farm. The irony was not lost on a single member of the ragtag group of refugees, although no one had spoken the words aloud. Instead, they had worked to stack bales of hay against the walls, blocking out the freezing cold and damp. The winter had been unforgiving thus far, showering them with sleet, snow, and freezing rain. The saving grace had been that the freezing temperatures had also slowed the walkers.
By Hershel's calculations, they were well into the New Year. Christmas had come and gone without anyone being the wiser, and Carol was guiltily happy for it. She certainly hadn't needed the reminder of a holiday better left in the past, now that the world had moved on and Sophia was gone. Her only regret was that their small family had missed an opportunity to grow even closer.
She missed Dale in those moments. He would have been the one, out of all of them, to point out that they still needed Christmas. Traditions were important.
But Dale was dead. And the dead now roamed the world and ate the living.
No, Christmas was better left in the past, but Carol still thought that their group deserved something.
So she plotted carefully, biding her time and gathering her gifts as they had come to her.
It wasn't easy. Runs were still hazardous. Not so much because of the walkers, but because of the weather, and she rarely got the opportunity to take part. When she did, she looked out for the little things. Soft yarn to knit a blanket for Lori's coming baby. A new pair of boots for Carl, who had entered another growth spurt and was quickly outgrowing his sparse wardrobe. A bracelet for Beth , who spoke little but doted on her father to the point that Carol often had to turn away, tears threatening to ruin a perfectly peaceful moment that didn't need her added drama.
And finally, a woolen poncho for Daryl. It wasn't something that she expected him to be happy about. She had chosen it more for the utilitarian purposes it would give him. Easy access to his crossbow. Warmth. A measure of protection against the dampness that unforgiving Georgia winters relentlessly rained down upon its residents, whether the world had ended or not.
She had carefully hidden away each treasure that she gleaned, biding her time until she had something for each of them, and it wasn't until yet another herd of walkers had driven them to flee again that she'd distributed her gifts without bothering to clue them in.
For his part, Daryl had all but surrendered his old leather jacket to Carol in favor of the poncho she'd gifted him with. She hadn't been expecting anything from him in return, but if that was his way of reciprocating, she wasn't arguing. It certainly kept the bite of the cold winter air away from her skin as they had traveled on.
February into March.
March into April.
April into May.
Eight months after the loss of the farm, sometime in the beginning of June, the group finally braved sleeping out in the open again. It wasn't coincidence.
It was kismet.