The morning was still gray when Daryl Dixon finished adjusting the strap on his crossbow. He didn't need to check the weapon; he did it anyway. Habit, safety, control. The camp was beginning to wake up behind him with that low murmur that never quite disappeared.

From where he stood, he could see everyone going about their business.

Rick was talking quietly with Michonne, pointing to a makeshift map on an old table. Glenn was helping secure one of the outer fences, focused as if each wire meant the difference between life and death. Carol was coming out of one of the houses with a bag over her shoulder, her expression firm, her steps sure. Maggie was discussing something practical, probably supplies. The group was still moving, still here.

Daryl wiped the blade of his knife with a rag and tucked it into his boot.

He said nothing; there was no need.

Hunting wasn't just about food, it was about distance. A space where the world was reduced to tracks in the mud and measured breaths, where he didn't have to think about losses or difficult decisions. Outside, the danger was simple. Walkers, hunger, and cold. Inside, things were always more complicated.

He slung the crossbow over his shoulder and quietly descended the porch steps. No one tried to stop him; they knew he would return, he always did.

Before crossing the makeshift boundary of the camp, he paused for a second. He looked back and saw Judith playing near the entrance under the watchful eye of someone from the group. He saw movement, life, something that felt like home, even though it was made of ruins.

Daryl clenched his jaw slightly.

He wasn't good with words, never had been, but every step he took into the forest was for them.

Without warning, he crossed the security line and disappeared into the trees. The sounds of the camp were left behind, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the wind in the dry branches.