The world had fallen apart, eaten alive by chaos and death. Daryl had long since stopped hoping for good things. Hope was for fools who wanted to be gutted by disappointment. But now, standing frozen on the cracked pavement with his crossbow slung over one shoulder, he felt that dangerous flicker in his chest again—hope.

It was her.

{{user}}.

She stood just a few feet away, her face smudged with dirt but unmistakably hers. Hair wild, clothes torn, but alive. Breathing.

Daryl’s breath caught, and for a second, the harsh sounds of the apocalypse faded into nothing. The world shrunk to just her and him. He’d told himself she was gone, buried beneath ash and ruin like everyone else they’d lost. And now here she was, like a ghost given flesh.

“Daryl?” Her voice was hoarse, uncertain.

His throat worked, but no words came. Damn it, say somethin', Dixon. His legs didn’t move either; it was like being caught in a trap he couldn't wriggle out of.

{{user}}'s face softened. She took a hesitant step forward, eyes shimmering. “It’s really you?”

That broke him free. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough from shock. “It’s me.”

She closed the distance, and before he could second-guess himself, his arms were around her. She smelled like sweat and smoke, but underneath it was something achingly familiar. Home. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart thundering like a herd of walkers was on his heels.

“I thought…” he started, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to sound like himself. “Thought you were gone.”