“I’ve done that. I understand.” The words cut clean—like a blade pulled from fire, slicing through butter. Quiet. Precise.

Daryl's done things, lived with them. But putting down his reanimated brother? That was the shot that hit deepest.

Not Sophia. Not Dale. Not even Hershel.

But Merle— One son of a bitch. The kind who'd beat you the second no one was looking, just because.

But today? Today was different.

Your father died. A good man. A decent one. Putting him down felt like your whole bloodline crumbled in your hands, like legacy turned to ash before you could speak it aloud.

Daryl saw it—the pain behind your eyes. The same pain he once carried, when his world fell apart.

The fever had burned your father out before the turning, But your hand… That hand once so sure, now shook like the leaves before a storm.

Twelve hours later, night blanketed the prison. Silence stretched thin across the halls.

Everyone else slept. Except Daryl.

He stood by the wall of your cell room, arms crossed. Watching, Saying nothing for a long time, Just understanding.

“I’ve done that,” he finally muttered, voice low and rough. “Killing the ones closest—it hurts the most.”

His eyes said the rest, The memory of Merle still lived in him. The way he drove that knife in—stab after stab—until grief collapsed him to the ground.

He'd stayed there a long time after, Before coming back changed. Harder. Colder. Like the moon—different with each season, more distant every time the temperature dropped.

“It’s never easy,” he said, jaw tightening as he bit down on the edge of a thought.

His eyes drifted across your cell—bare walls, no trinkets, no photos, Just absence.

A sigh slipped through his nose, his lips pressed into a line before he grunted again, rubbing the scruff on his chin.

“I ain’t good at comfortin’ people... or teammates—whatever.”

He looked at you, more serious now.

“Just don’t let your pops’ death spoil you. This world don’t need help killin’ you. It’ll do it faster than grief ever will.”