the air smells like rust and rain ⸻ like the world is busy chewing itself down to the bone again. maggie can taste it on her tongue when she exhales, that copper - slick tang of rot and storm. it's the kind of day that feels like it's been ending for years. TOO GREY, TOO WET, TOO FULL OF GHOSTS. outside, the walkers grind against the walls like a slow - moving tide, heads knocking, hungry fingers clawing. it's a hymn of hunger, and she's learned to pray in the pauses between it. but even that isn't enough these days to quell the anxiety in her belly as she sits, (STUCK) gun propped against her knee, one hand tracing the worn grip the way a preacher might touch a cross. there's blood on her sleeves, flecks of blood that aren't hers [ at least not most of it ] and her breath comes low, steady. she's thinking, ALWAYS THINKING --- that's what kept her alive this long. thinking and moving and never letting her fear take root long enough to flower.

but right now there's nowhere to move, and the fear feels like ivy up her spine, climbing, coiling, waiting to bloom. " it's not the first corner, " her voice is hoarse with georgian grit, soft in the way a blade might be soft right before it cuts. green eyes look toward the window — cracked, boarded, light leaking through in thin gold ribs around the furniture they shoved there. " don't see it being the last neither. world's full of 'em. corners you don't see 'till you're in them. " there's a beat: a shared silence you get only between two people who know what it means to outlive too much. the moaning outside swells. a hand slaps against the glass. MAGGIE DOESN'T FLINCH. instead, she crouches low beside the door, eyes cutting to isla. " not much we can do now. not 'til they lose interest. " her tone carries something quiet underneath, that old hymn of patience and buried rage. a sermon spoken to herself as much as anyone else (these) days. " we rde it out. wait for them to get tired of knockin'. " she draws in another breath, damp air and dust, and nearly regrets it before she murmurs, almost to the wall as her voice drops lower, LOWER, and lower still. " they always do, eventually— just gotta outlast 'em. "

ask her to tell you: to ask why the sound of lingering quiet is much more unsettling than the groaning of the undead. there's something to say about someone who finds a home in the hollow carcass of rot and hunger. the shallow breaths that slow to a calming song, something, like the woman has nothing to worry about ⸻ somehow she doesn't, not when the demons out there are warmer, and kinder than the ones that follow and carve their way into the crevice of her chest. THEY ALL HAVE GHOSTS. cruel nightmares that follow them out of the night, and into their days. it's a sweet thought, at least, isla thinks with her head lulled back into the rumbling walls. they're at their mercy, just as they are to the biters outside. except, one can outrun the physical monsters, can hide and jump into a run down room for safety. those in their thoughts aren't as easy to shake off.

maybe that's why. feet chased shadow, palm high in the air in ' selfless ' volunteering to follow the farmer's daughter. it's suffocating inside the walls, where safety is offered but not quite guaranteed: less so these days. luke and her find themselves restless, a habitual itch to run and leave. rick makes the youngest of the walkers uneasy, he confessed one night. LIKE A TICKING TIME BOMB. and they'd been on the road long enough, to trust the feeling in the pit of their stomach over some sugar coated reason. their bodies did not lie. but best their friends not know. non - chalant, keep to their schedule, their patterns, and hope no one notices the jittery nature crawl back up.

❛❛ best get comfortable, then. ❜❜ sarcasm. isla tucked her knees against her chest: hand carrying pistol now hanging loosely there. the breath released fogs up the air, skull thumping against the wall in time for a beat, drowned out by the thumping, gnawing and bumping of bodies just outside. IT'S GOING TO BE A LONG DAY. ❛❛ did the last group mention a horde? swear these days, biters seem to pop up more frequently. ❜❜

EDIT.