Sight: the ability to detect images and movement. The inability to see is commonly known as blindness.
Come on Andrea, where are you, Daryl thinks as he moves frantically through the forest, his bike an ever-distant blip on his rear vision as he searches for the last survivor of their group, his eyes constantly scanning the treeline for signs of living, breathing movement.
It’s cool now at night and while Daryl’s glad of the extra layers he’d thought to wear before the farm got overrun, he sweating beneath his shirt. Soon he’ll be able to see his breath on the air and his finger joints will ache the way they always do when it gets cold. He can feel the stiffness creeping into his knuckles even now but he ignores it as he moves silently through the forest, searching for the blonde woman who had stepped in front of that walker to save Carol without thought for her own welfare, the same blonde woman who hasn’t been seen in two days.
There are tracks all over the place and it’s hard to pick up a trail, but it’s not long before Andrea’s tracks come through; long, even strides indicative of running. He follows them easily, his eyes constantly scanning the forest, searching for the blonde woman with the bag of guns and fearsome skill. He doesn’t care what Rick says: no-one else gets left behind. Especially not Andrea. They need her and her sharpshooting skills, now more than ever. He doesn’t know what he’s going to find out here, but he went back for Merle and he’s going back for Andrea. It’s what he does, right? Goes back to find the people they leave behind?
The trees are clearing to reveal a logging road and cluster of outbuildings. There’s no walkers that Daryl can see, no moving ones, anyway, but the floor around him is littered with their bodies, precise, single bullet holes in the forehead.
He runs towards the building, his mouth half-open to scream Andrea’s name until he realises that probably isn’t a good idea. There’s no walkers here right now but him hollering her name might bring some. He hasn’t gone more than two or three steps when a bullet flies out of the window and lands squarely at his feet.
“The hell-?” He looks towards the house and visibly sags when he sees a flash of blonde and the muzzle of a rifle. “Andrea!” He shouts, running towards the house. “Andrea!”
The door opens as he nears it, a flash of dirty blonde hair and grubby clothes. “Daryl!”
She looks dirty and exhausted but she’s there and she’s alive and her eyes have never seemed bluer in this world of darkness that swirls around them and seems to pull them all in, one at a time. She almost drops the rifle as she runs towards him, seemingly forgetting herself as her arms and legs go around his body as she clings on for what feels like dear life.
“You all left.” She whispers in his ear as he walks them into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him. “You all left.”
“I know.” He hugs her back with all that he can (not that he has a choice when she’s hugging him back like that, hugging him back like she’s trying to crawl inside his skin), walking them backwards into the house as he checks her for bites and scratches. This is the first time since this mess started where he’s gone back for someone and found them. “But I’m here now.”