Here we are folks—the end. I hope you've enjoyed taking this journey with me. There will be more stories as I find the time and energy to write them. The next is already in the works.

I hope you've enjoyed this story. It's quite gratifying to me to look back at it. I hope you've enjoyed it too.

Goodbye, for now, and much love.

Absolution

He sent Carol for his truck, in the end. The one he'd driven out there. It was less than two miles away, after all.

When Daryl told her where to go, he tried to slip the keyring off his belt—but he couldn't do it. His hands wouldn't work right. She had to do it for him.

Then she put a canteen to his lips—and the water was cool. It spilled into his parched mouth. The taste of it made the world come alive to him. Like fireworks. Like sunlight.

She sat with him a long time. Barely said anything. Just slowly gave him the water. Held up his head while she did it. And Daryl—he listened to her breath. It misted in the cold air, up above his face. Flowed in and out in a soft, steady rhythm. Watching it was fascinating to him.

And Carol pressed a gun into his hands, then. It looked like Maggie's, to Daryl. And he knew there had to be a story behind that. One he'd probably never hear.

And right after, she got up and walked away. He remembered watching her disappear, around the tree—her shadow trailing along behind her.

That had been a good while ago, now. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Long enough that he started wondering if she'd really been there at all. If he'd imagined the whole thing. Dreamed it.

But he had her gun. That meant it was real.

He clung to it, and waited, and watched the thin snowfall float down out of the sky.

Carol walked out from the shadowed valley, and into the farmlands that stretched away into the space beyond it. And the whole area was almost eerily empty. Silent.

After spending days in the forest, the open air felt strange to her. The sky was bright. She could see for miles all around. The snow fell on her hands. Disappeared into the tall stalks of dead grass.

Finally, she made it to the rural route Daryl had described to her. Stood there on something solid, that men had made. There were ruts in the dirt, from long forgotten tires that would never return.

She looked down the length of that long, dirt road—one way, then the other.

On the right, way off in the distance, she saw a lone walker on the road. It wasn't really moving. Just standing there, waiting for something to happen.

But that didn't concern her. Daryl said to turn left—not right. So she did.

She reached a cluster of homes, at the swell of the hill. Driveways. It was empty. A graveyard. And she knew he'd parked somewhere around there. She didn't want to leave him alone too long, so she started hitting the lock button on the keyfob—hoping the sound would tell her where to go.

And it felt strange to her, to do that. It was so ordinary—she'd completely forgotten what it was like to do ordinary things. It was the sort of thing you'd do in a grocery store parking lot. Finally, she heard the truck chirping at her, down the way. Headed for it. The sound of it was so profoundly normal it bordered on the ridiculous.

And she saw it. Over there—at the far side of the largest building in the group. A derelict farmhouse, with a wide porch. Half collapsed, from hot and cold and wind and rain. She walked down the gravel driveway, alongside a picket fence with chipped, white paint.

Something hit against the fence as she did it.

A walker. She knew it in an instant. There were the familiar snarls. The scraping, strangled sounds wheezing out of its throat. Behind that, she could hear the sound of rusty chains moving back and forth. A playset, with empty swings screeching in the wind.

She stood next to the truck, and the dead thing behind the fence was still there. It followed the sound of her footsteps as she walked. It was just on the other side of the big gate. Rattled at it with its hands.

And then a tiny hand reached through the gap. A child's hand—emaciated and rotting. Stained with old, black blood.

It made her freeze in place. The snarls continued. Filled the quiet air. The walker kept shaking at the fence, and the wood trembled and groaned.

She couldn't tell if it had been a boy, or a girl. Not from what she could see. Carol could barely make out the silhouette of the little body, through the slats in the wood.

Her hand went to her knife hilt, a moment. She thought about it—what she could do. All it'd take was a turn of that latch, and the gate would fall open.

That little child had probably been back there for nearly two years. Pacing around. The thought of it strained at her heart.

And until then—until that moment, Carol hadn't realized how tired she was. But now she felt downright exhausted—pretty much dead on her feet.

For a moment, that phrasing almost made her laugh out loud.

And then her hand fell away from her knife. She couldn't do it. Couldn't look the thing in the face and put it down. Not now. It was too much. She just couldn't do any more.

So in the end, she left it alone. Ignored the rattling gate, and the groans. Turned her head from the sight of that small, straining hand. Got in Daryl's truck, and backed it out onto the grass.

After what felt like hours, Daryl heard something—something from out in the fields beyond the valley.

It was the truck. His truck. She was driving it out over the farmlands. Over the winter dirt, stiff with cold—slow and careful, so she wouldn't get bogged down in the tall grass.

She pulled right up to the side of the fallen tree. He could smell the exhaust. The sound of the engine was loud—it echoed off the hills. And then he heard the car door opening. The seatbelt chime going off.

And then he felt her arms, lifting him up from the ground.

Daryl knew she couldn't carry him. He had to walk. So he got a hand on her shoulder. She tried to brace him. Help him upright.

It took a long time. He hung onto her with one hand. The tree trunk with another. He put his weight on his good leg, and tried hard to force himself up.

After a while, she spoke to him, softly:

"You can do it."

And as it turned out, he could. Moments later, he was upright. Weak and nauseous, with his good leg shaking under his own weight. His head started spinning.

They limped forward, together. Daryl leaned into her body. Heard her grunt with the effort of bearing him up. But he couldn't really focus on that—the ground felt like it was spinning beneath his boots. When they made it to the edge of the tree trunk, he lost his footing.

He doubled over, and she clutched at him—held onto him, and he didn't fall.

From that angle, the fallen tree filled his vision. The sundress girl lying there in the ditch. He looked at her, one last time—slumped over, with her hair all blown over her face by the wind.

Daryl turned away. Never wanted to see her again. Pushed forward with a groan—away from the dead body. Towards the chiming of the truck, with its open doors.

"C'mon," Carol whispered to him, "Just a little further."

And soon, they'd made it. She eased him into the passenger's seat. He sank into the fabric, limply. She arranged his arms on the seat before closing the door.

"There we go," she said.

And moments later, they were off. For Daryl, being in something so normal as a truck was hard to process, at first. And at the same time, everything he'd been through in that godforsaken ditch seemed far away. Like it had never been real.

And so Carol took him away from there—out of the shadow of that low valley. Neither of them would ever go back there again.

And Daryl lay there, against the seat, listening to the whisper of the tires on the ground. Leaned his head against the window, watching the farm fields pass by outside. The tall trees. The light snow. Flakes of it stuck to the window, a moment, before they melted into beads of water, trickling slowly down the glass.

Carol had the heat on high, inside that truck. Warm air spilled over him from dusty vents—he could tell they'd hardly been used for years. It threw a musty smell into the air—one that reminded him of riding shotgun in his daddy's old pickup, way back when he was a little kid.

And they reached the main roads. Drove past clusters of walkers that turned to watch them go.

Long before they reached the prison, Daryl drifted quietly asleep.

At the prison, the Woodbury children were out—laughing and playing in the yard. Excited about the snow, even if there wasn't enough to do anything with.

Maggie and Glenn sat on some crates, up on the upper walkway. Keeping watch, there. Looked out over the kids, and listened to them laugh. Walkers crowded up against the far fence—straining for the children, who completely ignored them as they played tag.

"Looking at them, you'd think it was a blizzard," Glenn said, toying with the strap on the binoculars, resting on his knee.

Maggie shrugged.

"They're makin' the best of what they've got."

"Aren't we all."

And Maggie leaned back against the wire fence behind her. Looked out over the field—the flakes of snow in the bright sun.

"You know," she said, "It almost makes the place look pretty."

Glen smiled at her, a little.

"You know—back home—I used to love it when it snowed," Glenn said, "Me and my sisters, we had this plastic toboggan and we'd bring it to the alley behind the house, and there was this hill there, and—"

Maggie cut him off. Raised her hand. Pointed out towards the road:

"Heads up—something's coming."

She grabbed the binoculars from his lap. Focused for a taught moment, searching the horizon. Glenn clutched at the rifle in his hands.

And she turned to him.

"Oh my God—Glenn—that's Daryl's truck."

Carol cleaned herself up in her cell. Pulled off the clothes she'd been wearing—the ones the woman had given her.

It was only then it occurred to Carol that she didn't know her name.

Carol folded them up in a pile, next to her boots on the floor. They were stained and muddy, all over the knees—where she'd ground the fabric into the soiled dirt, searching the fallen stag. On the ankle of one pants leg, there was a torn place in the fabric, surrounded by dried blood.

And Carol turned from them. Wiped herself down with a bucket of warm water. Cleaned away all the dirt and grime and blood. As she did it, she realized her arms were coated with bruises—from the rocks in that creek. From fighting with the walkers. They'd bloomed there overnight—wide and dark and purple.

And Carol walked into the makeshift kitchen. Maggie was sitting at the table, there. Toying with an empty mug. Spinning it around by the handle.

"How is he?" Carol asked.

Maggie looked up.

"Dad's still with him."

Carol nodded, once. Went to put some more water on. Waited for it to warm up. Listened to the camp stove hiss in the air. Saw her own reflection in the metal pot on the burner. The scrapes on her forehead. The scabbed-over wounds.

She turned away. Rooted around for some towels. Once Hershel was done, she'd take over. Go to Daryl, and see to him.

Somewhere above, Beth was pacing around the upper walkway, holding baby Judith in her arms. Singing her a song—part of a hymn Carol had heard her sing before:

For the joy of human love—brother, sister, parent, child
Friends on earth, and friends above—for all tender thoughts and mild
Lord of all—to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.

Her voice echoed on the concrete. And just then—out of nowhere—Maggie put her mug down. Looked up at Carol. Leaned forward.

"God, Carol… what happened to you?"

And Carol could see what Maggie was seeing—it was reflected in her expression. She could see the bruises—there's no way she could've missed them. There was a sharp worry on her face. She stood up—reached for Carol's hand.

But Carol pulled her hand away.

"Don't ask me."

Maggie looked at her. And Carol took off her belt, then. Put the holstered gun down on the table. Removed the clips, and laid them there beside it.

Maggie took that holster. Cradled it in her hands. And she opened her mouth to speak, again, before Carol cut her off.

"Don't."

Carol made her way through the hall. The fresh towels were folded under her arm. She had a basin in one hand, and a bucket of warm water in the other.

As she made her way over, Hershel came out from the cell where they'd taken Daryl. She heard the sound of his crutches before she saw him. And then he was in front of her—looking the same as ever.

He gave Carol a steady look. Smiled at her—mostly with his eyes. Warmly, so it pulled at her heart.

And he touched her arm.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"He alright?"

"He's still unconscious, for now. And, well… even I might win a race with him, today… but he's strong. Give him a while, he'll be good as new."

Hershel patted her arm, again. Made to move on—fast. Or as fast as he could move on those crutches. She imagined he still had a thousand things to do, today—regardless of what was going on with Daryl.

They all did.

Carol made to move on, herself. But before she could head to the door of the cell, a voice rang out from behind her. A familiar voice—old and soft and faltering:

"Ms. Peletier."

Turned around. Saw him standing there, wearing a familiar, old bathrobe. Oscar's discarded slippers on his bony, old feet.

"Mr. Fischer…"

And she was at a loss for words, just then. The old man looked… good. Better by far than he'd been before she left. His hands weren't shaking. He was up and about. Somehow, despite the diabetes—despite how little they could do to manage it… he was doing alright.

She'd never thought she'd see it happen.

And he looked towards the windows. The light fell over his wrinkled face from outside.

"It's a beautiful day," he said.

And she just stood there. The water sloshed in the bucket—heavy in her hand. But she didn't really notice.

Mr. Fischer came up to her. Leaned in close against her cheek, and kissed it.

Daryl wasn't really aware of what was happening to him. Everything was a grey blur. Voices, echoing in the air. Hands, touching him. Light, and shadow.

Snatches of sight—a concrete wall. A hand, holding a washcloth.

And Carol's face. Her downcast eyes, framed with the long lashes. Completely lost in thought, as she leaned over him.

While she sat at Daryl's side, Carol listened to the familiar sounds of the prison. It was never really quiet, here. And that felt comforting, to her.

She had a bowl of water next to her, cloudy with blood and dirt. And now, she was combing Daryl's hair. Gently working on the knots—the dried bits of blood clotted through the tangled strands.

After a while, Rick drifted into the cell door, holding Judith in his arms. When the baby saw Carol, she immediately lit up. Smiled. Reached out with both arms.

But Rick. It was like he couldn't look at her. Not in the face.

And when he finally did, she saw that his eyes were swimming with tears.

Carol smiled at him. He didn't smile back. Walked away, into the hall, again.

Daryl opened his eyes to a pale, grey light. A winter light. It floated over the concrete walls. The blue stripes of the mattress on the bunk above his head.

He was back in the prison. Didn't remember getting there. Didn't remember anything, really, after Carol got him in the truck.

And he heard her voice:

"Hey," she said, quietly.

She was with him. Of course she would be.

And she had her hands in his hair. Combing at the knots. Kept doing it, as he took in his surroundings.

There was an IV hooked into his arm. He looked up at the line, and the bag hanging there, above it. And he wasn't sure what was in the thing, but it was definitely helping with the pain. It gave him a warm, peaceful feeling. The ache from his wound felt dull and far away.

He was cleaned up, in fresh sheets. He saw the bucket of water where she'd been washing him. Past that, Daryl saw a rifle in the corner of the cell. He recognized it. It was the rifle from the valley—the one that man used to shoot him. The one he'd killed the guy with, after.

Carol must have found it. Brought it back. And now it was resting there, innocently enough. As if it'd never done a thing to hurt anyone.

He let out a sigh. Didn't want to think about all that, just now. Eased his head down onto the pillow, and against her waiting hand.

And then he looked up at her.

"How bad…" he asked, "How bad is it?"

She smiled.

"Hershel seems to think you'll live."

She leaned over him. He started to focus on her, more—got a better look. There were bruises blooming on her arms, and shoulders. She had a nasty scrape over one eyebrow.

He started putting it all together, then. What happened. She'd come for him. Searched the woods to find him.

She'd done it alone.

And looking at those bruises, he had no idea what happened to her out there.

Daryl didn't know what to say.

She saw him—saw him looking at the bruises. Pulled the sleeve down on her sweater, trying to hide them, a bit.

In the instant before she covered herself up, he could see a sort of hollowness in her face. And he knew it, then—whatever happened to her out there, it was bad.

She let out a sharp breath. Broke his train of thought.

"It's alright, Daryl," she said—as if she'd read his mind.

She leaned in, again, to work on his hair. He felt her breath on his forehead as she spoke:

"Everything's going to be fine."

And he wasn't sure what she meant by it, really. If she was talking about the gunshot wound, or something else.

She laid a hand on the side of his face, again. Warm, and soft. Smiled at him.

That smile. It looked beautiful, to him. A kind of beauty that almost hurt. A kind he didn't really understand, all the way. He'd only ever felt it in the woods, before the walkers. Before the quarry.

Before the group found him.

Since then, it'd started creeping into the corners of things. This warmth. Quiet—wordless. Like the clouds moving over the sky. Like the leaves taking on color in the autumn—slow and subtle, so he hardly noticed the change.

This... thing. This nameless feeling. It'd become the background to his entire life, now—and he never even saw it coming.

Carol leaned away, again. It seemed like she'd finished what she was doing with his hair.

"You can just rest now, if you want to," she said, "Sleep. You need it."

She ran her hand against the side of his face, again. And he let her do it. Nodded, weakly.

"Ok."

She nodded back. Touched his shoulder. Put down the comb, and made to leave.

He tried to sit up. Reached out with his hand. Said one word:

"Stay."

So she did. Settled back into the chair, at his side.

And he felt himself drifting off, again. Didn't even try to fight it. Let himself sink into the mattress, with the warmth of the blankets all around him. Carol's hand resting on his shoulder.

Before he slipped under, he took that hand, and held it.