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Summary
Some people leave their dead in the dirt. You carry yours in a weathered leather pouch in your apron pocket.
To the rest of Alexandria, you’re just the eccentric gardener who brews strange tea and reads the future in a handful of smooth, white knuckles. But when Rick Grimes’ group rolls through the gates—feral, blood-stained, and half mad from the road—they don’t see a healer. Abraham thinks you're a swamp witch. Daryl Dixon thinks you're a lunatic.
He doesn't trust a single thing about this gated paradise, least of all you. But after a sharp tongued outburst earns you the nickname Bones, the tracker starts lingering. Daryl thinks it’s a joke. He thinks you're just playing games with smoothed pieces of the dead to soothe a soft town.
He has no idea whose hands you're actually holding. Or what happens when his own ghosts start talking back.