The cold bite of early evening clung to the air, the sky bruised purple and streaked with dying orange as the sun dipped low beyond the treeline. I stood on gate duty, perched atop the catwalk of the prison entrance, the old guard tower creaking under my boots with every step. My fingers were numb, curled around the cold metal of my rifle, but the moment I saw movement at the edge of the woods, heat surged through me.

They were back.

Rick was leading the group, his silhouette unmistakable—broad shoulders, purposeful stride, the familiar sheriff’s hat casting a shadow over his brow. Beside him, Maggie moved with a limping gait, her jeans torn at the thigh, dried blood staining the fabric. Glenn was at her side, close as always, his arm around her waist like he wasn’t ever planning to let go. Michonne brought up the rear, her katana strapped to her back, eyes scanning the treeline even now. Silent. Watchful. Ghost-like in the failing light.

I felt myself smile a little, relief blooming in my chest as I leaned down over the railing. “You’re back,” I called, voice loud against the quiet buzz of crickets and the groan of the prison fence. “Everything go okay?”

Rick didn’t answer at first—just kept walking, jaw clenched, boots heavy on the gravel. There was something off in the way he moved. No nod of greeting. No glance up. Just a storm brewing behind those eyes.

And then I noticed.

“Wait… Where’s Daryl?” I asked, brows furrowing. My voice cracked slightly, but it was too late. Rick’s eyes flicked up at me, sharp and cold.

“Daryl left,” he said flatly, cutting me off before I could ask more. His tone was a blade—hard, final—and then he walked right past me through the gate, not slowing, not stopping, the rusted bars groaning as they opened and then slammed shut behind him.

“What do you mean he left?” I called, hurrying after him down the cracked pavement, gravel crunching beneath my boots. “Rick, wait—what the hell happened?”

He didn’t even look over his shoulder. Just kept walking, shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides. Like if he spoke again, the anger would boil over.

That’s when Glenn’s voice came, quiet and strained. “He went off with Merle.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. The chill in the air suddenly felt like ice water down my spine. “Merle?”

Glenn nodded, eyes tired, voice barely more than a breath. “It wasn’t Rick’s call. Daryl made his choice.”

Behind him, Michonne said nothing. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her eyes told me she understood more than she was letting on. She always did.

The sun finally dipped behind the trees, and the prison yard was swallowed in shadow. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of smoke from a dying fire and the ever-present rot of walkers beyond the fence.

Somewhere in the dark, a crow called out. And for a long moment, I stood there staring at the path Rick had taken, the weight of Daryl’s absence settling into my chest like a stone.