Michonne fixates on the tree, stares at the lights until they blur and she has to blink to focus. The two Christmases she got, it was really good. He'd been old enough to be fascinated, not old enough to care beyond playing with boxes.
"Andre," she finally says. "He was three."
The people who know about him is growing, and really, that makes the last person here in their group who doesn't know, Rick. And maybe she should tell him, but everyone has a story about someone they lost now. Michonne's kept it unknown because he's just another person gone.
(That's what she tells herself. She says that's why, but it hurts like trying to take a deep breath with a knife in her chest when she thinks of him. So she tells herself no one cares to hear about it so that she doesn't need to talk about it.)
"He'd have liked you, all sunshine and smiles," she says with just a hint of her own smile.
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"Andre," she finally says. "He was three."
The people who know about him is growing, and really, that makes the last person here in their group who doesn't know, Rick. And maybe she should tell him, but everyone has a story about someone they lost now. Michonne's kept it unknown because he's just another person gone.
(That's what she tells herself. She says that's why, but it hurts like trying to take a deep breath with a knife in her chest when she thinks of him. So she tells herself no one cares to hear about it so that she doesn't need to talk about it.)
"He'd have liked you, all sunshine and smiles," she says with just a hint of her own smile.