The road stretched out before them, long and cracked, the sky an endless smear of gray. Winter was coming—every gust of cold wind carried the scent of decay and distant smoke. The prison loomed ahead through the trees, fences topped with barbed wire glinting faintly in the weak light. Michonne slowed her pace, her hand instinctively tightening on her katana. You walked beside her, the weight of your pack heavy on your shoulders, your fingers numb around the grip of your pistol.

It had been days since Woodbury. Since Andrea chose to stay. Since Merle—Merle—dragged Maggie and Glenn away while you stood helpless, rage boiling under your skin as Michonne held you back.

“You sure this is it?” you asked, voice low but firm. Your throat felt raw from days without rest, without quiet.

Michonne gave a short nod, her eyes fixed on the fences ahead. “She said it was a prison. Said her people were there.”

You swallowed hard, a lump catching in your throat as you took another step forward. You hadn’t dared to hope, not since the farm. You’d seen too many bodies, lost too many faces to even let yourself imagine he might still be alive. But now, staring at that place through the fog—something in your chest fluttered, painful and sharp.

A figure appeared on the catwalk, rifle in hand. You froze, heart slamming in your chest. The gate creaked as another smaller shape stepped into view beside him.

“Rick!” The name left your mouth before you even realized you were saying it. You shoved your hood back, wind tangling your hair as you took a step closer to the fence.

Rick’s gun faltered, lowering slightly. His face went pale, eyes wide with disbelief. And then—Carl’s voice broke through the silence.

“Dad—look! It’s—” He didn’t finish. Because Rick was already moving.

The world seemed to tilt as he came running down the steps, eyes locked on you like he didn’t dare blink. You could see the months of loss written in the lines of his face, the dirt, the exhaustion—but beneath it all, the same fierce light you remembered from the farm.

Michonne lingered a few feet behind you, her gaze flicking over the guards, assessing the scene. But you—your feet were already carrying you forward, chest tight with emotion you’d buried so deep you almost didn’t recognize it.

“Rick…” you breathed, stopping just shy of the gate. Your voice cracked on his name, the sound raw, broken.

He stared at you for a heartbeat longer, then turned and shouted to someone inside the yard: “Open it!”

As the heavy gates began to roll open, the world around you faded—the walkers groaning in the distance, the cold air cutting through your clothes—none of it mattered.

The gates clanged shut behind you, the sound echoing through the prison yard like a memory snapping back into place. You barely noticed the men on the catwalk aiming down, or the strangers clustered near the inner fence. Your eyes searched desperately past Rick’s shoulder, scanning faces—each one a blur until one stopped you cold.

Crossbow slung over his back, hair longer and wilder than you remembered, Daryl Dixon stood frozen halfway down the stairs. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. The last time you’d seen him, the farm had been burning, walkers pouring through the fields. He’d shouted for you to run, promised he’d find you. And now—months later—he had.

“…Daryl,” you said, voice small, trembling with disbelief.

His eyes widened, flicking to Rick as if needing confirmation this wasn’t a hallucination. Then he moved—fast, boots hitting the ground as he crossed the yard in long, sure strides. You dropped your pack before it even touched the dirt and met him halfway.

When his arms came around you, it wasn’t careful—it was desperate. You hit his chest hard enough to knock the breath out of both of you, fingers fisting in his vest, face buried against the scent of leather, sweat, and smoke.