Daryl picks the picture up gently, carefully as his clumsy, calloused hands can. The flowers remind him of home, where plants are the right color and you can find deer in the forest. The simple, quiet mornings and spare stretches of land where Walkers either aren't or haven't gotten to yet. Peace.

"Looks... right, I dunno. I ain't a poet." He sets it back down. "Why'd you take all these? Ain't we at war?"