"𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊'𝒎 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓
𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊'𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆"

-𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑳𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒏-

The next morning is quiet in a way that feels wrong. The kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe. No one talks much. There's nothing to say, really. Otis is gone, and nothing will change that. All they can do is gather stones—small, rough, imperfect—and try to make something that looks like a grave. It doesn't feel like enough. But what else can they do?

Lottie kneels in the dirt, fingers brushing over a smooth stone. It fits perfectly in her palm, warm from the rising sun. She holds onto it for a moment—just a moment longer—before placing it carefully on the growing pile. It feels strange to do something so simple for someone who had been so much. Strange and small. But maybe love is in the small things. And Otis deserved love.

Death. It lingers at the edge of her mind, heavy and inevitable. No one really talks about how sudden it is. How one moment someone is here—smiling, breathing, talking—and the next, they're gone. Just... gone. And all that's left is a body.

But even bodies don't stay. Not anymore. Flesh breaks down. Faces fade. And soon, there's nothing but bones in the dirt and whatever memories you hold onto. And the memories—they slip away too. No one tells you how fast that happens.

It's not the face she worries about forgetting. It's the sound of him. His voice—steady and kind, the way it softened when he talked to her little sister. The way he always made her feel safe, like the world hadn't fallen apart completely. That's the part that hurts the most—the part that disappears first. One day, you can hear it clear as anything, and then... it's gone. No matter how much you want to hold onto it.

A line from a poem floats to her, uninvited—something she read back in school, before the world fell apart:

("They do not vanish, those we love—But their voices drift like smoke,Soft and thin—until one day,They're only silence in the wind.")

She doesn't want Otis to become silence. Not him. Not after everything he did. But she knows better. Everything fades eventually. Even love.

A loud engine cuts through the stillness, sharp and jarring. Lottie startles, pulling herself back to the present. A motorcycle—fast and loud—comes roaring down the road. Too loud. It feels wrong, careless even, to make that much noise when the world is filled with things that want to kill you.

Lottie pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dirt off her hands. "Is this guy serious?" she murmurs, glancing toward Maggie. "All the walkers are gonna hear that."

Maggie just shrugs, her expression unreadable. The others pause what they're doing, eyes fixed on the approaching bike. Whoever this is, they're not subtle.

The motorcycle slows as it nears the farmhouse, and a man with an and a hard face, climbs out of the motorcycle.Lottie stays where she is, arms loosely wrapped around herself. She doesn't feel like meeting anyone new today. Not when Otis's grave isn't even finished.

Rick and Lori step outside, walking toward the strangers. Lottie watches from a distance, feeling more tired than anything else.

"How is he?" the man asks, his voice rough and low.

Lori manages a small smile, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "He'll pull through. Thanks to Hershel and his people."

Rick adds, almost too quickly, "And Shane. We'd have lost Carl if not for him."

Lottie's chest tightens at the mention of Shane. It isn't anger she feels—it's more complicated than that. She knows Shane saved Carl, and she's grateful for it. But Otis had been the one who went with him. Otis had been the one who didn't come back. And no one seems to be saying his name. It doesn't feel fair. It doesn't feel right.

The man claps Rick on the shoulder in a familiar way, like they've known each other forever. The woman hugs Lori, and there's something desperate in the way she holds on, like she's scared to let go.

"How did it happen?" the man asks. His voice is softer now.

"Hunting accident," Rick says. "That's all. Just a stupid accident."

Lottie lowers her gaze to the ground, something twisting deep in her stomach. A simple answer. A clean one. But nothing about this feels clean. It's messy, and raw, and it doesn't sit right inside her.

She glances back at the small pile of stones. It's not enough—not for someone like Otis. He had been steady and good, the kind of person who gave more than he ever asked for. And this... this quiet burial without his name on anyone's lips doesn't feel like the kind of goodbye he deserves.

But maybe there's no such thing as a right goodbye anymore. Just broken pieces and heavy hearts—and the hope that, somehow, love lingers in the quiet spaces left behind.

Everyone stands around the pile of rocks that is meant to be Otis's final resting place. The air is heavy with sorrow, the weight of the loss settling on them like a blanket. The rocks, jagged and uneven, are the only things they have to honor a man who gave his life so others could live. One by one, each person steps forward, some with trembling hands, others with quiet resolve. They place their stones, their final acts of remembrance, on the pile. Lottie watches, her heart a storm of emotions. Her fingers ache with the need to do something more, something meaningful, but all she has is this small, simple gesture—placing a rock on a grave.

Her father's voice breaks through her thoughts, steady but heavy. He begins to read the prayer, his words cutting through the silence.

"Blessed be God, Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Praise be to Him for the gift of our brother Otis, for his span of years, for his abundance of character. Otis, who gave his life to save a child's, now more than ever, our most precious asset. We thank you, God, for the peace he enjoys in your embrace. He died as he lived, in grace."

Lottie can feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She holds herself still, biting down on the ache in her chest. She places a rock on Otis's grave, each action slower than the last. Her father's prayer is a bittersweet comfort. It's the right thing to say, but she wonders if it truly reaches the depth of what's lost. How could it? How could anything fill the hole left by someone who had been there, standing beside them, smiling and living just days ago?

Her father turns to face Shane, his expression heavy, but somehow searching. "Shane, will you speak for Otis?"

Shane doesn't move at first, his face locked in a grim, faraway look. He stares at the ground, a haunted look in his eyes, like a man lost to the weight of his own memories. He takes a deep breath before he mutters, "I'm not good at it," his voice barely more than a whisper. His apology hangs in the air, fragile and empty.

Lottie watches him, then steps forward, her voice softer than usual but insistent. "Please... just a couple of things. It doesn't have to be a big speech. Just a few words."

Patricia, her voice shaking with the rawness of grief, adds, "You were the last one with him. You shared his final moments. Please... I need to hear it. I need to know his death had meaning."

Lottie can see the pain in Patricia's eyes, the desperate need for something, anything, to give Otis's death purpose. It's a feeling she understands all too well. She looks at Shane again, his face clouded with thoughts too heavy to share, and nods silently, urging him to speak.

Shane's eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—regret, guilt, and something darker. But then, slowly, he begins.

"We were about done." His voice breaks the silence, deep and gravelly, like a man who's been carrying the weight of this moment for too long. He pauses, his mind racing back to the memory. "Almost out of ammo... We were down to pistols by then. I was limping. It was bad... ankle all swollen up."

Lottie hears the strain in his words, the rawness of the memory forcing its way out. She can see it now, Otis beside him, both men in the fight of their lives, struggling to survive against the odds.

Shane stops for a moment, his chest rising and falling with the effort of gathering his thoughts, then continues. "We've got to save the boy." He swallows hard, the words thick with the weight of what they meant. "See, that's what he said." His eyes shift toward the grave, and his voice drops to a near whisper. "He gave me his backpack. He shoved me ahead. 'Run,' he said. He said, 'I'll take the rear. I'll cover you.' And when I looked back... if not for Otis, I'd have never made it out alive. And that goes for Carl too." Shane's voice cracks on the last part, the guilt and grief finally breaking through. "It was Otis. He saved us both. If any death ever had meaning, it was his."

There's a heavy silence that follows. The weight of Shane's words settles over them, a collective understanding that Otis's sacrifice wasn't just an accident. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice—one that saved lives.

Lottie watches Shane for a moment, her heart tightening. She can see the burden he's carrying, the weight of loss and guilt that he'll never be able to shake. She knows it well, that feeling of something undone, a debt that can never be repaid.

She steps toward Patricia, her arms opening instinctively. Without a word, she pulls her into a tight hug, her own grief threatening to swallow her whole. She whispers softly into her ear, "You see, he died a hero. He is a hero, not only was." Her voice falters slightly, the truth of it too much to bear.

Patricia clings to her, her sobs muffled against Lottie's shoulder. It's a comfort, but it's not enough. Nothing will ever be enough to fill the space Otis left behind. All they can do now is honor him, remember him, and carry on.

Lottie closes her eyes, her thoughts a swirl of sadness and longing. She thinks of Otis, of the man she knew, and how this moment—the burial, the words, the loss—will forever remain etched in her memory. Death is never just about the body. It's about the moments lost, the voices faded, the faces erased from the world. But Otis... Otis won't be forgotten. Not by her. Not by anyone who knew him.

As the final words are spoken, the others begin to step away, leaving Lottie standing by the grave. She takes one last look at the pile of stones, the marks of their loss, and whispers to herself, "We won't forget, Otis. We won't forget."

The group lingers near the car, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the ground. The air is heavy—too heavy—and it clings to Lottie's skin, sticky and warm. No one talks much, but it's not the comfortable kind of quiet. It's the kind that feels like something's pressing down on all of them, something no one wants to say out loud.

Hershel's voice breaks the silence, low and even, but there's something weighty beneath it. "How long has this girl been lost?"

Rick doesn't hesitate. "This will be day three." His voice is steady—too steady. The kind people use when they're holding everything else back.

Three days. Lottie shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers brushing against the hem of her skirt. It's a long time for a little girl to be out there alone. Too long. She knows what these woods are like—how quiet and endless they feel, even when you're not scared and small. But it isn't the silence that worries her. It's everything hiding inside it.

Without fully meaning to, she speaks. "And... are you sure she's alive?"

The words come out too blunt—too honest—and the second they do, she feels the air around her change. Everyone turns toward her, and her stomach twists in on itself.

Lori's jaw tenses, her arms crossed tight like she's trying to hold herself together. Rick doesn't say anything, but his eyes—steady and sharp—land on her, heavy with something she can't quite name. And Shane, leaning against the car, just glances at her with that same hard, unreadable look he always seems to have.

Heat creeps up the back of her neck. "I mean..." Her voice softens as she tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "Anything's possible. Just... these woods—they aren't exactly safe."

No one answers. The quiet stretches too long, and her face burns under the weight of it. She hadn't meant to sound cold—hadn't meant to say the thing everyone was already thinking but couldn't bear to voice. But wasn't it better to be honest? Better to know the truth than cling to hope that might not be real?

Before anyone can speak, footsteps crunch against the dirt. Maggie appears, a folded map clutched in her hands.

"County survey map," she says, spreading it open across the car's hood. "Shows terrain and elevations."

Relief flickers across Rick's face as he steps closer. "This is perfect. We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area—start searching in teams."

Hershel doesn't hesitate. "Not you. Not today." His voice is firm but kind, with the edge of someone who isn't going to argue. "You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out."

Rick looks like he wants to fight him on it, but he doesn't.

"And your ankle," Hershel says, turning toward Shane. "Push it now, you'll be laid up a month. No good to anybody."

The silence hangs thick until Daryl shifts, his voice cutting through it. "Guess it's just me." He leans against a tree like it doesn't matter, like it was always going to be him anyway.

Lottie doesn't think—she just speaks. "I'll come with you." Her voice is soft, but steady. "I know the woods pretty well—I can help."

Daryl lifts his head, one eyebrow raised like he's already decided she can't. "Yeah? I think I'll do better alone—quiet and all that."

His words aren't mean, exactly—but they aren't nice either.

Lottie tilts her head, refusing to shrink under his stare. "I can be quiet."

Daryl huffs under his breath, like the idea of that is so impossible it isn't even worth arguing.

Maggie shoots her a look—a quiet, knowing glance that Lottie pretends not to notice. She doesn't need permission. And she's not going to let Daryl Dixon decide what she can and can't do.

"So, great. I'm coming with you," she says simply, turning on her heel and walking back toward the house. She doesn't wait to hear whatever else Daryl has to say.

The air inside her room is cooler, still heavy with the scent of dried lavender tucked into the windowsill. She closes the door softly behind her and presses her back against it, letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

For a moment, she just stands there, listening to the clock tick quietly against the wall. Same time every day.

She moves to her cupboard, opening the familiar drawer with a quiet ease. The amber bottle sits tucked beneath a folded scarf, right where it always is. She doesn't think twice before twisting off the cap and shaking a pill into her palm.

Daily—at the same time. Routine.

It had started years ago. Back when things were normal—when the nights felt heavier than they should, and her mind wouldn't stop spinning in circles. Back then, it wasn't the world outside keeping her awake. It was her own thoughts.

She had always been the kind of girl who felt too much—who dreamed too much. Sometimes the dreams followed her into waking hours, clinging to the edges of her mind. Some mornings, she would wake up breathless, wondering if she had imagined the things she'd seen or if they had always been there, waiting.

And sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet and safe, those thoughts would creep in. The questions—the wondering. What if? What if it wasn't just a dream? What if there was something real in the things no one else could see?

But it was just her head. She knew that. And the pill? It helped. It softened the edges, made the nights easier. Made her mind a little quieter.

She swallows it dry, the taste bitter on her tongue. Just part of her day. Nothing more, nothing less.

For a second, her eyes catch on the old photo tucked beside the lamp—her and Maggie, arms wrapped around each other, smiles wide and easy. The memory tugs at something soft in her chest, but she lets it go.

There's no time for that now.

By the time she steps back outside, Daryl is still leaning against the same tree, crossbow slung easy over his shoulder. His eyes flick to her as she approaches.

"Here you are," he says, his voice rough as ever. "Thought you fell asleep or somethin'."

Lottie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You're real patient, huh?"

He smirks—just barely—but doesn't answer.

As both of them wandered further from the farm, the woods stretched out around them—quiet. Too quiet. It pressed against Lottie's skin like something heavy and unseen, making her restless. The silence never sat right with her—it left too much room for her thoughts to creep in, sharp and biting. So, she spoke.

"So, you from Atlanta too?" she asked, her voice light as she tapped her fingers against the knife she'd taken.

Daryl glanced at her but didn't answer. Just kept walking like she wasn't there, like her words were nothing more than background noise.

Lottie sighed softly, brushing a curl behind her ear as she tried again. "How does the girl—um, Sophia—look like?"

This time, he didn't even bother glancing at her, but at least he answered. "Like a girl," he muttered, his voice low and rough

.She stopped walking, fixing him with a flat stare. Was he serious? "Really?" Her lips curved into a dry smile. "Wow. I figured she'd look like a unicorn—horn and everything."

That got to him. He let out a sharp breath, half a sigh, half something closer to frustration, and finally turned to face her. His eyes swept over her—slow and unimpressed, like he was trying to figure out why she was even here. "Listen, woman—"

"Lottie," she cut in quietly, soft but certain.

His lip twitched, like he barely had the patience for this. "Whatever. She's got ginger hair. Probably them freckles."

Lottie just nodded, her voice gentler now. "How old is she?"

"'Bout the same age as Carl," he said, bored, like he couldn't care less if the conversation died right there.

"Okay," she murmured, mostly to herself.

Before she could say anything else, he turned around and kept walking—always moving forward, like slowing down meant something worse might catch up.

A twelve-year-old girl. Lost. Alone.

It could've been Beth. The thought tightened something in her chest—cold and sharp. If Beth ever went missing, Lottie wouldn't stop. She'd tear the world apart if she had to. She understood that kind of love—the fierce, unyielding kind that didn't care what it cost. Maybe that's why she was out here. Not because anyone had asked her to, but because no one deserved to be left behind. Especially not a child.

But if she was being honest, it wasn't just about the girl. It never was.

Because somewhere deep down, in the places no one could see, Lottie knew there was something broken in her.