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He watches her walk away slowly, the sun on her white shirt nearly blinding. The way she carries herself one might think she bears the weight of her past like boulders on her shoulders.
Perhaps she does.
Daryl fiddles with the cigarette between his fingers, trying to make sense of her reply. In a way, he understands. But there is more to it, a depth that digs deep trenches into her soul, and he has long lost whatever capacity he has had to make sense of it.
Staring at his recovered bike, he has to silently admit that he can no longer help her. She has cut herself off, maybe long ago. His temples throb when he allows his mind to drift, sifting through dusty and blood-speckled memories. When did he lose her? When did he last see her smile - honest and real and untouched by tears?
Metal bars and wired fences flicker in his mind. He can almost smell brick and concrete, feel the springs of a worn mattress digging into his back.
The morning of the Big Spot run. How long ago was that? A year? Hardly a year? A lifetime ago. As the details of that ill-fated run fade, her smile remains rooted in his memory.
Carol's last smile.
Eyes drifting down the road, Daryl knows where she is. Where she has been every day since their return from the slaughter house. Faintly, he can hear the creaking of Tobin's swing. It's a nasty and penetrable sound in the quiet morning air, but that is not what Daryl dreads the most.
It is the unfamiliar jab of pain at the idea if Tobin's lips on Carol's. His hands in hers.
He shakes off the wave of jealousy that washes over him. This is neither the time nor the place for him to be a fool, and she deserves every ounce of happiness anyone can offer. And in truth, Daryl knows exactly that he will never be able to give her what Tobin can.
Still, his pain is sharp and tugging mercilessly in his chest. With a mildly angry grunt, he throws the cigarette onto the sidewalk, his boot working the ash into the creaks.
Her eyes take in the fresh earth that now fills the grave. Damp and cool, she knows without touching it. Daryl stands there frozen, fingers curled so tightly around the shovel that the white of his knuckles pushes through.
She makes her choice in this moment, with a heavy heart and limbs like lead.
Dropping her own shovel unceremoniously onto the ground, she walks past the grave - another name, another void. Daryl shows no sign of reacting to her, staring down towards the ground with a sort of anger in his eyes that she has not seen in a long time.
She longs to finally thank him for everything he has done. Searching for Sophia against all odds. Staying by her side during the harsh months of winter. Saving her from the tombs. Giving her a purpose in this bleak world. Saving her in move ways than she can even find the words for. Most of all, Carol aches to finally tell him how very much she loves him. How important he is. How cherished and valued and worth.
But right now, anger and guilt seeping from his pores like sweat, standing over Denise's grave - it is once again the wrong moment.
Moreover, it would be the cruelest of parting gifts.
She is caught between longing to touch him and forcing herself not to. Eventually, she resigns like an animal dying agonizingly slowly in a vicious snare. Her hand comes to rest on the blazing hot skin of his upper arm. A firm touch, all the softness washed away.
You were right, she repeats, feeling his muscles clenching beneath her touch. He still will not look at her. Oh, how she longs for one last glimpse of his eyes, as wide and open and unforgiving as the sky. But this is not on you. Her words carry on a broken whisper.
When he shows no sign of response, Carol continues. It is vital that he understands this, that he stops carrying the weight if other people' s deeds. None of it has ever been on you. You have to stop blaming yourself.
The grip of her hand on his arm tightens, and she can feel the achy callouses left on her palm by the shovel. Sophia, she whispers for the first time in so long (the name that once came so naturally is suddenly foreign). Your brother. Hershel. The accumulated weight of their journey causes her to gravitate towards him, her boots shuffling against the grass. Beth. None of that was your fault.
She is close enough now to smell the alcohol on his breath. But still he hides his face, denies her the mercy of a last glimpse at what she has grown to care so deeply about. Him.
Sighing inaudibly, Carol raises her hand from his arm and seeks out his scruffy cheek. With a muffled grunt, he pulls away immediately, a sharp sting rupturing through her system at the rejection.
Knowing that this will be her last memory of him, how she will remember him until the day she dies - however soon that may be - stirs an almost unbearable rush of sadness. It waters her eyes and weighs down her lungs.
She swallows it away like bile, sour and rotten in taste. Then, quietly and before she ruins his last memory of her, she takes a cautious step back. The grass beneath her feet is soft.
This is not on you, she declares with sincerity in her voice.
Hoping to a God she can no longer believe in (despite the sharp tipped rosary in her pocket) that he will understand the meaning if her words in due time. Come morning.
He has to try.
And so does she.