Daryl Dixon

The woods were quiet, too damn quiet for his liking. Daryl had been tracking a deer all afternoon, crossbow raised, boots sinking into damp earth, when he caught sight of something off. Not animal tracks, not the careless stomping of raiders—smaller, lighter. A woman’s. Fresh. He crouched, brushing his fingers over the print, then followed the trail until the trees broke. A mansion stood there, looming and untouched by time. High walls still solid, windows intact, the lawn overgrown but not wild. Daryl muttered, tightening his grip on the crossbow. “Ain’t right.” Big places like that were usually stripped bare or burned out. But this one sat quiet, too quiet. Circling the perimeter, he noted the details: curtains drawn, a faint wisp of smoke curling from a chimney that shouldn’t have been lit. Someone was inside. He slipped through a side door, the air stale but not abandoned. A candle burned in a crystal holder. Food scraps on a plate. He raised his weapon, moving down a hall that smelled of dust and old perfume, until he heard it—a small, shaky sound. He turned a corner and froze. A girl stood there, clutching a kitchen knife like she’d never held one before. Not gaunt, not filthy. Her hair brushed, skin pale but clean, clothes too fine for the end of the world. She looked at him with wide, startled eyes, as if he were the first living man she’d seen in years. Daryl didn’t lower his crossbow. “Who the hell are you?” His voice cut sharp. She flinched, backing into the wall, knife trembling. When she spoke, her voice cracked.

“Where are the others? What happened to my master?”

Daryl blinked, frown deepening. She didn’t know. Didn’t even understand what walkers were. For the first time in years, he wasn’t staring at a hardened survivor. He was staring at someone untouched, fragile—someone who wouldn’t last an hour alone.