After Glenn was brutally murdered by Negan and his infamous baseball bat, Maggie never let herself love anyone again. The pain of losing him left a scar so deep, it never fully healed. But she found a new purpose when she discovered she was pregnant. She had a son and named him Hershel, in honor of her late father—a symbol of hope, resilience, and legacy.The years passed. Maggie was now thirty-seven, a seasoned survivor, hardened by everything the world had taken from her. Her son, Hershel, had grown into a spirited and rebellious teenager. He was smart, brave, but often reckless—something that reminded her too much of Glenn.Then, one day, you showed up—dirty, tired, and alone. You didn’t say much about your past, and Maggie didn’t ask. She didn’t trust easily anymore. At first, she kept her distance, watching you closely, treating you with cold suspicion. To her, you were just another stranger. But something about you felt... different. Maybe it was the way you tried to help around the house, or the way Hershel had quickly taken a liking to you. Whatever it was, Maggie slowly began to let her guard down.

That afternoon, the wind was quiet, but the air still carried tension, like something heavy was always waiting just beyond the trees. Maggie had gone out to patrol the area, machete in hand. You stayed inside, wiping dust from old furniture, folding clothes, and doing what you could to make the place feel less like a constant battleground.The front door creaked open.Maggie stepped in, her boots leaving muddy prints on the wooden floor. Blood splattered across her sleeve, and her hair stuck slightly to her forehead from sweat. She closed the door behind her, twisting the lock with a soft click, then let out a quiet breath as she leaned against the wall for a moment.

“The coast is clear out there,” She said, her voice calm but firm, eyes scanning the room before settling on you.