where the graveyard blooms - carl grimes

EPILOGUE.

THE EPITAPH
             what withers gives way to
                     what blooms

Alpha died later that same year.

I thought it would feel like a triumph, like some long-awaited release, but the truth was messier than that.

It took so much to get there. Too much.

A lot of others had to die before it was finally over. There were days when the sun rose red over the fields, and the ground beneath our feet felt more graveyard than earth. But in the end, the communities survived it.

Just as Carl had promised me when we first met.

The walls held. The people lived. Life went on.

I think about those words sometimes—life goes on. It's so simple, so easy to take for granted, but it carries the weight of everything we've fought for. Everything we've lost. We survived. We built something stronger than the pain that tried to destroy us.

Earl didn't live to see it, though. When he passed, he left a legacy—not just the forge and the tools of his trade, but Thomas. The sweet little boy. The responsibility for that tiny, innocent life fell to me, and then, naturally, to Carl.

It wasn't a question, really. By then, Carl and I were already intertwined in ways that felt permanent, inevitable. Thomas became ours in the unspoken way that so many things between us do.

Carl is flourishing now. Not just as a blacksmith, though he's made a name for himself with the way he works metal like it's a living thing, something he can shape and coax into beauty. No, it's more than that. He's become a leader, just as Daryl once said he would be. Heading the council wasn't something he sought out—it's never been Carl's way to chase power—but people trust him. They look to him, and he answers with that consistent, thoughtful presence. Because he listens. Because he cares. He doesn't lead with force; he leads with compassion. With the quiet understanding of what it means to survive and rebuild.

Under Carl's guidance, Hilltop and Alexandria have become something more than just allies. The road between the two is well worn with constant passage as we share our resources, knowledge, and people.

Michonne visits often, bringing Judith and RJ with her. She's proud of Carl. I can see it in the way she watches him, like she's seeing him for the first time again, but this time as a man. And in ways I never expected, she's become a mother to me—offering a type of maternal love I never knew I still needed, but now I can't imagine living without.

Once, I told Judith a story about the Plaza Hotel in New York City. How they used to change the flags out front to let you know when princesses were visiting and what country they were from. Her eyes lit up, as if it were a fairytale and, I guess, in a way now it is. She asked me endless questions about the princesses and their flags, and I realized then how much she loved the idea of being seen, of having something special just for her. Carl, ever the creative and annoyingly good at everything he tries, took it upon himself to sew her a flag of her own—the flag of Alexandria. Red with a bold blue stripe down the center, simple but unmistakable.

Now, whenever Judith comes to Hilltop, we hang it proudly from the gate, the banner swaying in the breeze to let everyone know that a princess has arrived. The first time she saw it, her face lit up with such joy that it was hard not to tear up. It's such a small thing, really, but it feels like magic, like a piece of the old world stitched into this new one.

In return, Judith made a flag for Hilltop. She used a big sheet of construction paper, crayons worn down to nubs, and all the care her small hands could muster. It was green and yellow, vivid and bright, as if she'd captured the colors of spring. A perfect representation of Hilltop. Of us. Of this new life.