Too damn quiet.

That was the first thing I noticed when I woke up.

Not that I really slept. Ain’t been sleepin’ right in days. Ever since we cleared this place out. It’s been two weeks. Fourteen days since the last walker dropped inside the fence, and still, I can’t let myself settle.

Everybody else is startin’ to. You can feel it—Rick’s got that look in his eye again like maybe he can breathe for once. Hershel’s got crops on the mind. Carol’s been teachin’ the kids how to gut squirrels like it’s home ec. Hell, even Glenn and Maggie—yeah, they’ve been actin’ like they’re already buildin’ a future here. A safe one.

But me?

I keep waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.

So here I am, boots heavy on the cold cement floor, stalkin’ the tombs like some restless damn ghost. It’s humid down here, thick with mildew and rot, the kind that clings to your lungs like wet cloth. Air don’t move right. Smells like mold and old blood—always does. But I ain’t here for the smell. I’m here ’cause I can’t sit still. Not when it’s quiet. Not when it feels too easy.

Too good.

My crossbow’s slung in my hands, cocked and ready. Been walkin’ the lower corridors, same routes the walkers used to shuffle through before we cleared ’em out. Ain’t seen one in over a week now, but I ain’t takin’ chances.

That’s when I hear it.

Wet. Messy. Loud.

Sloppin’ and smacking, like a hog goin’ to town on a trough. I freeze, nostrils flarin’. That ain’t no rat. Not that loud. Too damn loud.

I raise the crossbow, slow, like I’m drawin’ back a memory. My boots crunch on broken glass, and I wince. Should’ve known better than to step blind, but it’s dark down here. Pitch black, save for the beam of my flashlight cutting through the gloom like a blade. The light flickers against the concrete walls, slick with old moss and water stains, casting long shadows that twitch when I breathe too hard.

I turn the next corner and follow the sound.

Closer now.

Eating.

Gnawing, wet and feral, like teeth pullin’ meat from bone. My heart kicks into gear, that old thrum in my chest I get before I pull the trigger. I step over a busted bench, and the beam of my light catches on something small—too small.

My breath hitches.

It ain’t a walker.

It’s a kid.

She’s crouched low in the corner, back to me, her frame so thin it looks like it might snap in two if she breathes too hard. Hair all matted up like it’s been glued in place by dirt and sweat and God knows what else. She don’t turn. Don’t even flinch. Just keeps devouring whatever she’s got gripped in those tiny hands—a can of beans, by the look of it. Torn open with something sharp. Her fingernails are caked black. Her skin… hell, I can count her ribs from here.

Eight, maybe nine years old. No shoes. No sound from her lips but the sucking, frantic hunger of someone who ain’t eaten proper in days, maybe weeks.

I lower the crossbow, slow. My arms are still tense. Not ‘cause I think she’s dangerous.

But because I don’t know how she got in here.

How long’s she been down here? How’d we miss her?

My voice don’t come easy, but I force it out anyway.

“…Hey.”

She freezes. Just like that, the noise stops. The can clatters to the floor and echoes like a gunshot. Her little shoulders draw up like she’s ready to bolt, but she don’t run. Just turns her head a little, eyes wide and white in the dark like a rabbit caught in the open.

I step forward, careful-like. Voice softer now.

“You ain’t gotta run. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

My throat’s tight. Something twists in my gut.

She looks like a ghost. A real one. Not the kind I carry in my head.

And suddenly, I ain’t just thinkin’ about her.

I’m thinkin’ about Sophia.

About how she disappeared. How we searched. How we found her.

And how maybe, this time… maybe we got a second shot.