The sun hung low in the sky, streaking the prison yard in shades of gold and burnt orange. It was one of those rare evenings when the world felt almost normal — the sounds of people working, the soft clatter of tools, the lazy clucking of hens by the coops. The walkers pressed harmlessly against the outer fences, nothing more than distant, dull shapes.

Beth stood by the fence with Maggie, leaning against the cool metal, her arms crossed. They watched the others go about their routines — kids helping with the garden, Glenn and Sasha sorting through supplies. There was laughter somewhere, a faint, honest sound that felt too precious in a world like this.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Beth said softly. “Days like this.”

Maggie gave a small smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah. Feels like we might actually have a shot.”

Beth was about to answer when she noticed it — a shape out by the outer gate. Not a walker. Too steady. Too human.

Her brow furrowed, straightening a little. “Maggie… you see that?”

Maggie followed her gaze, eyes narrowing.

A man, thin, dirty, moving like they’d been walking for days. The sunlight caught on pale hair. Their clothes were torn, their face hollow, but there was something about them — something familiar in the way they moved, in the sharp line of their jaw.

Beth’s breath caught in her throat. “Who…?”

And then it clicked. A name she’d only heard whispered in the yard, around campfires, in low conversations Daryl would quickly shut down if anyone asked too much.

“{{user}},” she breathed.

And before Maggie could ask who, Beth was already moving toward the gate.