Chapter 143: gathering of happiness
Five years.
That's how long it had been since the last walker dropped dead. Five years since the world finally exhaled the breath it had been holding for nearly a decade. The chaos, the blood, the horror—all gone. Now, there were streetlights again. Traffic signals. Kids in school, teachers with chalk-stained fingers, police officers directing traffic instead of pointing guns at the living.
It was like the fall never happened. Like the dead had never walked.
The city—once two separate communities, Alexandria and the Sanctuary—was now a place simply called Haven.
Rick and Negan, of all people, had made it work. They governed together. Not always in perfect harmony, but with mutual respect. Rick handled the civic structure, the laws, the people. Negan kept the peace, ran security, and made sure no one stepped too far out of line.
Michonne ran the school district. Maggie ran the agricultural sector. Daryl trained the city's defense forces. They all had jobs now, responsibilities. They weren't soldiers anymore. They were people again.
Some had families. Some had new loves. Some had scars that would never fade.
But they were alive.
And every month, like clockwork, they gathered together to remember the ones who weren't.
That night, the gathering was at Rick's house.
The air was warm, filled with the smell of smoked meat and grilled corn. Laughter echoed across the backyard. There was a picnic table filled with beer bottles and empty plates, and kids running around with foam swords.
Negan was flipping ribs at the grill, wearing an apron that read, "Kiss the Cook, or Else."
"You burned it again, didn't you?" Maggie teased, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway.
"Please," Negan scoffed. "This? This is art, sweetheart."
"Smells like charcoal," Daryl muttered from his lawn chair, sipping a cold beer.
Michonne sat beside him, chuckling softly, her sword leaning against the chair like old times.
Rick stood on the porch, watching them all, one hand nursing a bottle, the other resting on his hip. He looked older now, but not in a bad way. Like a man who had lived through a war and earned the right to age in peace.
They laughed. They told stories. And they remembered.
Carl. Glenn. Abraham. Tara. Rosita. Sasha. Enid. And Axel.
Especially Axel.
"I still remember that time he jumped off the wall to save Judith," Rick said, shaking his head with a smile. "Idiot damn near broke his leg."
"He said it was worth it if it made him look cool in front of Maggie," Michonne added with a grin.
Maggie looked down into her drink, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"He had this way of acting like a dumbass," Daryl said. "But... he wasn't. He knew exactly what he was doing."
"He was a good man," Rick said quietly. "A good man in a bad time."
Everyone nodded.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the neighborhood.
And then... there was a knock.
Rick paused, brows furrowing.
He looked around the yard. Everyone was there. No one missing. Even the kids were inside playing a board game in the living room.
He stepped off the porch and toward the front door.
The knock came again.
Rick blinked as if waking from a dream. Laughter still echoed in the background—Negan making a sarcastic jab, Daryl grunting something back, Maggie chuckling low beside Michonne. The smell of grilled meat and the warmth of shared history filled the air.
He moved toward the door, confused. He had counted everyone. No one was missing. No one ever missed this gathering.
He opened the door slowly.
The cool breeze of the evening slipped through first.
Then came the silence.
Standing just outside, not on the porch but a few feet away, leaned against the wooden railing of the house's front bench, was a young man.
Not quite a boy.
Not quite a stranger.
His silver-white hair shimmered in the pale porch light, slightly longer now, messy and untamed. His body had filled out, tall and lean, but powerful. There was a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling upward, and on his back—strapped casually like it belonged there, like it always had—was a katana.
Rick stared.
The young man didn't speak. He didn't smile.
His crimson eyes flicked toward Rick. Not burning with rage anymore. Not empty. Just tired.
"Axel...?" Rick whispered, voice barely a breath.
Axel took the cigarette from his mouth. Flicked it away.
And for the first time in five years, he spoke.
"Got a beer?"
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