midnight in the garden of eden - carl grimes

IVX

-

ivx.

white winter hymnal
"i turned around and there you go"

-

In the days that follow, Lydia settles into the rhythm of our lives like she's always belonged here. She occupies herself with chores and daily activities I'm struck by how she transforms even the simplest task into something beautiful.

The way she hums softly to herself as she chops vegetables. The way her competitive spirit shines through with Judith and RJ as they gather around the worn wooden table for board games. The way she scrunches her nose when she concentrates. The way she stands at the kitchen island with Michonne clutching coffee mugs and discussing Boterismo. And for those moments, it feels as if the weight of the world has lifted. I catch glimpses of Lydia.

Each evening, after the chores are done and the house settles into the stillness of night, we retreat to the couch and I read to her in the light from the fireplace. Just the two of us. At first, we sit on opposite ends, a careful distance that feels more like a promise than a barrier. But as I read, I find her inching closer. I pretend to be absorbed in the story unfolding on the page, but every time she leans in, I can feel the magnetic pull between us drawing me nearer as well. By the end, we're always nearly shoulder to shoulder.

As glow of the fire dims, I walk her back to her room and hesitate at her door each time.

"Goodnight, Lydia." Is all I end up saying. She just smiles, a soft warmth that lingers even as she closes the door, a signal that another day has slipped into the night spent alone, a boundary that remains unbroken—a boundary I won't dare cross until she allows it.

Lying in bed, I close my eye and remember how it felt to hold her, to feel the softness of her hair against my cheek, the warmth radiating from her body as she slept—that fleeting night I'd give anything to reclaim.

And that becomes life. The snowball fights. The book reading. The silent moments of our eyes meeting across the room. The porch swing conversations. The hands held in prayer and subsequent bowls of soup after. The board games and coffee mugs and inside jokes and movie nights and walking her to her door. It's sweet and wholesome, like the scent of fresh bread wafting through the kitchen, a simple but profound life that forms around me and warms me from the outside in.

I watch her heal, piece by piece, and I realize that in the midst of this winter, amidst the chill that surrounds us, she has unwittingly thawed something deep within me. She wasn't the only one with healing to do.

-

A delicate frost is clinging to the windows, the air bitterly chill, as I step outside to chop firewood. The world is painted in soft whites and muted grays, a canvas glistening under a pale sun. Each swing of the ax echoes against the quiet when I hear Lydia's voice call out.

"Are you doing a good job?"

I pause, glancing over my shoulder at her. She leans against the porch railing. "There's no wrong way to do it." I reply but the way she watches me makes my heart race a little.

"Just checking." She continues, coming down the steps. "I thought you were good at blacksmithing when you weren't, so I just needed to make sure." I chuckle, resuming my work, but then she adds, "Or maybe it's just because you look good doing it."

I almost drop the ax mid-swing, my heart skipping a beat. "What did just you say?" I ask, not sure I heard her correctly.

"I didn't say anything." She responds innocently.