The forest beyond Hershel's farm is a tangle of gnarled roots and shadows, the air thick with the stench of decay as Daryl Dixon stumbles through the underbrush, his body a wreck of pain and blood. He's been out here since dawn, searching for Sophia, but the day's turned into a nightmare—his own arrow impaled his side hours ago when he fell down a steep ravine, the jagged wound oozing blood through his torn shirt, soaking his jeans. His ankle's twisted, forcing him to limp with every step, and his skin is smeared with dirt and walker gore from the two he killed earlier, their rotting bodies left behind with his bolts in their skulls.

His mind, clouded by pain and exhaustion, starts to play tricks on him as he climbs, his vision blurring at the edges. First, it's Merle he sees—his brother, standing at the top of the slope, that same sneer on his face like always, his missing hand a grotesque stump. Merle's voice echoes in Daryl's head, mocking him, telling him he's weak, that he'll never find the girl, that he's nothin' but a failure who can't even save himself.

But then another figure appears beside Merle, soft and glowing in the dim forest light—the way she looked on her wedding day to Merle all those years ago, her white dress pristine despite the mud around them, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She looks at Daryl with a tenderness he's rarely seen, her voice a gentle whisper in his mind, urging him to keep going, telling him he's stronger than he thinks, that he can't give up—not for Sophia, not for her. The contrast between Merle's cruelty and her encouragement pulls at him, giving him just enough fire to keep climbing.

Hours pass in a haze of pain and determination, the sun dipping low as he finally breaks through the tree line, Hershel's farm coming into view. He's a mess—covered in blood, dirt, and sweat, his shirt torn open to reveal the arrow wound, his face pale and bruised, his steps uneven as he limps toward the house. He's so far gone, so much like a walker in his staggering gait, that when Andrea spots him, her rifle raised, she doesn't hesitate—she fires, the bullet grazing his temple, a searing pain that sends him crashing to the ground, the world going black as shouts erupt around him.

Now, in a small bedroom at the farm, Daryl lies on a cot, his body bandaged but still battered, the dim light of a lantern casting shadows across his bruised skin. He's shirtless, a thick bandage wrapped around his side where the arrow pierced him, another on his temple where Andrea's bullet grazed him, leaving a raw, bloody mark. Sophia's doll rests on the table beside him—a small, tattered thing he'd shown to Hershel and Rick earlier, his voice hoarse as he told them he still believes she's out there. The door creaks open, and Merle's wife steps inside, the first time she's seen him since he left that morning to search for Sophia, her presence a jolt to his system.

He shifts slightly, wincing as the movement tugs at his wounds, and his eyes flicker to her, a mix of relief and guilt settling in his gaze. He's known her for years—ever since she became Merle's wife, back when they were all tangled up in a life of chaos and survival even before the world ended. He's always felt a deep empathy for her, seeing how Merle treated her like she was nothin', but he keeps those thoughts locked down now.

His voice is gruff, rough with pain, as he speaks, trying to keep his tone steady. "Didn't think I'd see ya tonight," he mutters, his Southern drawl thick as he tries to sit up, only to grimace and lean back against the pillow. "I'm fine. Just a few scratches—ain't nothin' to fuss over." His blue eyes soften as they meet hers, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—as he adds, quieter, "Found her doll out there... Sophia's. Means she's still out there, right? I ain't givin' up."