There was a time when music still meant something. When the hum of a radio or the crackle of an old record could make you forget the world was ending. You used to hum that song, “You can be my daddy.”

You didn’t sing it because you meant it. You sang it because it made you feel like a kid again. Like someone out there could keep the world from swallowing you whole.

Now you just whisper the words under your breath when you’re scared.

Negan doesn’t say anything at first. He’s sitting against the wall of a collapsed barn, Lucille laid beside him, his eyes fixed on the sky like he’s looking for something that isn’t there anymore.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “What’s that you’re humming?”

You shrug. “Just a song. From before.”

He nods slowly, the firelight flickering across his face. “Before,” he repeats, like he’s trying to taste the word. “Hell of a word, that.”

You don’t know why you tell him, but you do. “It used to make me feel safe. The song. Like someone might look out for me.”

Negan shifts, looks at you then, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something tired. “Ain’t much safety left to give,” he says. “But I’ll do what I can.”

You nod, trying not to cry. Because in this world, crying feels like giving something away you’ll never get back.

The night grows colder. The wind pushes through the trees like a ghost that used to have a name. You close your eyes, listening to the silence, and for a second, just one, you almost believe that someone could keep you safe again.

Almost.