The room was bathed in pale light, the stone walls softened by the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense. Daryl lay tired and exhausted, his arm wrapped in bandages that concealed a painful mark seared into his skin. His light linen shirt, half-unbuttoned and printed with subtle lines, hung loosely across his chest, and the trousers he'd found for him made him look like a gentleman sipping wine on a yacht, if the apocalypse hadn't happened. Crossing the ocean, clinging to the walkers, the pain of the fire searing his flesh... All of it weighed on him until his head bowed and his eyes closed.

Sleep came uneven, broken by the sound of bells and the weight of memory. In the fog of his mind, the chamber seemed brighter than it should be, washed in a strange, holy glow. Shadows blurred into whiteness, as if the whole world had been covered by an angelic veil. Somewhere between dream and waking, he thought he saw her.

She entered with the quietest of steps, carrying the clean scent of white flowers and soap into the room. A headscarf framed her hair and face, marking her with a kind of purity he hadn’t seen in years. In the chaos of the broken world, she stood out like something preserved, untouched, almost sacred. The linen of her dress was light, soft against her frame, glowing faintly in the muted light of the candles.

At his side, she hesitated, watching him drift. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, his face softened in rest. The senior nun had told her what must be done: remove the bandage, cleanse the wound, anoint the skin so it would not fester. It was duty, simple and holy but here, standing over him, it felt like something more, as though mercy itself had been placed in her hands.

She leaned closer, fingers trembling only for a moment before she steadied them. The bandage unwound in slow layers, each fold carrying away the memory of heat and pain until the raw mark beneath was revealed. His skin was scorched where the iron had kissed it, red and seared, angry yet alive. She applied the healing ointment to the pads of her fingers, then gently pressed her fingers to his hand and carefully applied it to the mutilated flesh.

In his half-dream, Daryl stirred. The glow around her seemed too bright, too soft, like the shimmer of heaven pressing into his vision. For a fleeting second he thought she was an angel, come to lift him out of his wandering, to carry him past all the blood and ash he had known. The fragrance of flowers, the coolness of her touch. It was otherworldly, pure, unlike anything that survived beyond these walls.

"Hey, who the hell are you?!"

He snorted, jerking his hand away as if it were on fire. Although it was perfectly clear that here at the abbey they were trying to cure him and get him back on his feet...