TWD: Survival's Edge ? Daryl Dixon (Back from break)

- Amara's Perspective, day after the barn incident
(unedited version because this chapter is very late. Sorry if this chapter is a bit boring, its just the aftermath and the setup for the end of the barn era.)

        The needle pulled through the fabric. Amara sat on the old, practically rotted picnic table, with her flannel stretched over her knee, and the yellow button between her fingers. She pulled the thread tight and went in again. The mustard-yellow of the button stood out like a sore thumb out of the other brown buttons on the flannel. 
 
         She'd been so angry at Hershal. At his blind, desperate hope. At the way he let himself believe something that wasn't true, let it fester and grow until it became a cage—one where he locked away every hard truth he didn't want to see. And now, after all that, after everything, she understood it.

       Because wasn't she doing the same thing? Holding onto this little thing—this stupid little button—like it could keep Sophia here? Like it could mean she wasn't gone?
       The thread caught on itself, knotting. Amara yanked too fast and nearly snapped it. A sharp breath left her, and she forced her hands to still, working the knot loose with trembling fingers.

       A snap of a twig pulled Amara's focus up from her piece of clothing.

       Henry stood by a tree, arms crossed. His hair was a mess, dark circles under his eyes. He glanced at the flannel in her lap. "That hers?"

Amara bit the thread off and almost stopped at his words. She swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah."

         Henry lingered on a tree, shifting his weight. He looked like he hadn't slept. "She's been in her room all day," he muttered.
          Amara glanced up. "Who?"

          "Beth." He ran a hand through his hair. "Hasn't said anything, hasn't come out. Maggie tried, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know. I think it's hitting her now."

Amara pressed her fingers against the yellow button, feeling the stitches rub against her thumb.         
         "Yeah." She didn't really know what else to say. 

         Henry pushed off the tree. "She's not the only one."
         Amara's hands stopped. "What?"

         He sighed, rubbing his face. "Everyone's just... quiet. Even Shane." His voice was bitter, but tired, too. "Took a damn massacre for him to shut up." 
         Henry looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. "You okay?"

         She almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because what kind of question was that? Nothing about this was okay. But she just shrugged. "I don't know."

         Henry nodded like he understood. He started to speak, glancing down at her flannel again. "I'm glad you're keeping it."

        Amara didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was quieter. "I don't want to forget her." She looked at her hands, taking a deep breath to keep her voice from getting shaky. "I don't wanna forget anyone. Sophia, Amy, Jim, hell, even Ed."

         Henry sat down on the dirt floor, resting his back against the table. "You won't." He hesitated, then added, "None of us will."
         He exhaled, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wanted to say something else but wasn't sure how. Eventually, he just sighed. "I'm sorry. For before."

         Amara's jaw tensed. She knew what he meant—how he'd helped her, how they'd fought, how everything had just kept piling on. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about any of it. "It's fine," she said, cutting him off before he could say anything else.

          Henry's mouth pressed into a thin line, like he didn't believe her, but he didn't push it. Just nodded once. 

          Then, the sound of the front door of the cottage slamming snapped Amara's head up.
Maggie's boots hit the porch hard as she ran down the steps, her voice sharp with urgency.        
         "Have either of you seen Hershel?"