Rosie had gotten a letter like this before. A letter from someone who knew they were going to be dead soon; someone who wanted to say their last goodbye after they were already dead. 

Sitting on the end of a bed, Rosie stared down at the folded-up piece of paper. Her name was on the front. Rosie. Not Rosie Banks or Rosie B. Just Rosie. Maybe Carl knew she wasn't Rosie B. anymore. He was always smart like that. He could always figure those things out. His handwriting was a bit strange, in Rosie's opinion. It was tall and skinny, and a bit smaller than her own handwriting. But it was Carl's handwriting, so she loved it. 

Fraser's handwriting was messy, too. But Fraser's handwriting wasn't always messy. It was just on those last slips of paper that his handwriting was difficult to read. The ends of his letters were all connected and he didn't write in a straight line. It was sort of like a wavy cursive, except Rosie wasn't actually sure if Fraser knew how to write in cursive. He wrote normal, printed letters, but they were all strung together like one long, heartbreaking ribbon of pencil lead. Fraser had written two notes.

This wasn't a good place, Rosie decided. She didn't want to read it here. She was scared she'd cry, and she didn't want everyone to see her cry. She knew it was ok to cry- she could cry whenever she felt like crying; it wasn't her fault everything was shitty- but she still didn't want everyone to see her crying. Then they'd ask what's wrong? and Rosie would want to punch them right in the nose. There were only a few people who could ask what's wrong? without Rosie wanting to punch them right in the nose. They were the only exceptions. 

Holding the paper in her right hand, Rosie slid off the end of the bed. She needed a better place to read it. This wasn't good enough. She went to the door and peeked out into the hallway. Her eyes were already glassy. She didn't want anyone to ask about that. Luckily, no one was in the hallway. She stepped out of the room and kept her eyes on her shoes as she made her way down the stairs. When she finally made it outside, her stomach started to hurt. There were lots of people out there. 

The sun was going down. Rosie wanted to get away from everyone. She couldn't go anywhere on her own, though. She had learned that lesson a thousand times over. Plus, Henry was still missing. They didn't need another missing kid on their hands. But she didn't want to be with all of these people. For a moment- a quick, sad little second- Rosie forgot that Carl wasn't there. For just that one tiny moment, she thought to herself, I could ask Carl to go with me. But Carl was gone. His goodbye was scrawled out on the paper in Rosie's right hand, and she couldn't pick a spot to read it in. 

Rosie just needed to be alone. Alone where no one would interrupt or bother her. But she couldn't leave. She couldn't leave the Hilltop. She sighed, chewing on her lip as she looked around aimlessly. Her eyes landed on a pile of wooden logs. Those were the logs that were stacked on top of the secret exit Sasha made to get out of Hilltop whenever the Saviors showed up. That tunnel would be empty. No one would bother her there. 

With quick steps, Rosie started walking towards the woodpile. She thought about Sasha. Sasha was smart for making this tunnel. She made it for Maggie and Ian. Now Sasha was dead. She died to help Alexandria. She was good like that.

"Rosie?" Ian's voice said from Rosie's left. Frustrated, Rosie paused her walking to turn and look at him. "Where are you going?" Ian asked.

"Nowhere," Rosie answered honestly. She wasn't leaving Hilltop. She was just going to hide away for a little while.

"Why are you going to the tunnel then?" Ian asked. Rosie didn't answer. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She was scared the lump in her throat would interrupt her before she could get a full sentence out. "Are you crying?" Ian asked. Rosie shook her head. No, she wasn't crying. But she would start crying if Ian wasn't careful. Ian looked away for a moment, then looked back at her. His voice was more firm when he said, "You can't go, or I'll tell Daryl."

"I'm not going," Rosie said, her voice just as, maybe even more, firm than Ian's was. Ian seemed to consider her answer for a moment, then he narrowed his eyes a little bit. Rosie glared at him, hoping it'd scare him off and he'd just leave her alone. After a moment, it seemed to have worked. Ian nodded and walked off. Thank God. 

Rosie continued her walk to the tunnel. She was only a few steps away. She switched the letter to her left hand, because she'd need her right hand to move the other wood out of the way. But then, she remembered that her right arm was hurt, so she switched the letter back to her right hand. She used her left hand to push the extra wood out of the way, then lifted the little door that led into the tunnel. Being careful not to hurt the letter or her arm, Rosie climbed down into the tunnel. 

It was very dark in this tunnel. That made sense. It was underground, of course, it was dark. Stupid. Why didn't you bring a flashlight? Rosie huffed at herself, then turned back around, about to climb back up out of the tunnel. Then, she paused. On the ground, in the corner, was a flashlight. Sasha really was smart. She knew what she was doing. As Rosie picked up the flashlight, she almost smiled to herself, but didn't. She flicked it on. It still worked. After taking a moment to look around, Rosie sat herself down on the ground and pulled her knees up to her chest. 

The letter was right there, in her right hand. The flashlight was in her left hand. She was shining it at her name. Her name, which Carl had written. Rosie. As carefully as she could, she unfolded the paper. 

Rosie was six years old. She was home alone. Her dad was either still at work, or maybe at the bar. She didn't care. It didn't matter. Rosie went to her room. She'd been in the living room, trying to watch cartoons on the TV. She only got to do that when Daddy was gone. He hated cartoons. He said they were annoying and would fry her brain. He was probably right, Rosie thought, but she liked the cartoons, anyway. He didn't have to know that she'd watched them. There was no harm done, as long as she didn't get caught. Luckily, she was smart enough to recognize the rumble of her father's truck. So, whenever he got home, she'd just hurry to change the channel and turn the TV off before Daddy got inside the house. 

Today was different, though. When Rosie tried to turn on the cartoons, she was greeted with a  message on the screen. The message was in big, colorful letters and said something about going outside to play. Rosie didn't bother reading the whole message. It was clear that no cartoons were going to be playing any time soon. So, she just changed the channel back to the National Geographic channel. Daddy liked watching the shows about fishing on National Geographic. 

After changing the channel, Rosie went to her room. There was no way she was going to go outside and play today. It was raining. She liked running around in the rain, but the last time she did that, Daddy got mad because she'd gotten all wet, and that made the floor all wet. Plus, the next day, her shoes were still wet from the rain and she had to wear them to school, anyway. Her shoes squeaked in the hallway and her socks got wet. It wasn't very fun at all. She'd learned her lesson. She wasn't going to go out and play in the rain. 

So, with nothing else to do, Rosie decided she'd go to her room and draw. When she got to her room, she looked around for her notebook. She hadn't used it in a long, long time. She hadn't been drawing much, lately. She had really been doing much of anything. Nothing seemed very fun anymore. Sometimes she'd play with her dinosaur stuffed animal or her Jessie doll, but the last time she did that, Daddy got mad at her for being too loud. She could now, since he wasn't there, but the idea of drawing was stuck in her brain. She wanted to draw a picture. Maybe a picture of a crocodile. 

Rosie found her notebook tucked away at the bottom of her backpack, buried beneath her sweatshirt. The cover of the notebook was purple. Rosie liked purple. It was her second favorite color. Her first favorite was green. She pulled the notebook out of the bag. It'd been so long since she'd drawn or written anything in it. She began flipping through the pages, looking at her drawings. They weren't very good. She wasn't really good at very many things, anyway, she thought. She kept flipping through, looking for an empty page. 

All of the page flipping stopped when Rosie reached a page with someone else's handwriting on it. She hadn't written this. Her handwriting wasn't nearly as small as this person's handwriting. She opened the notebook up to the page with the strange handwriting. 

The top of the page had her name on it. This was weird. Rosie had not written this. She continued reading, anyway.

Rosie,

I left you that necklace and note by your bed, but I don't feel like that's enough. I have a lot to say, so I hope you've gotten better at reading. Your spelling isn't very good, based on what you have written in this notebook. You'll have to work on that. Keep practicing. And work on your handwriting. It's pretty bad. Anyway.

I love you. I love you so so so so much, Rosie. I hope you don't forget that. I don't want you to feel like no one loves you because I do and I always will, even when I'm not there. There are lots of other people who love you too. You just can't always tell. That's why it's so hard. That's why I'm telling you. I love and other people love you too. Don't just think no one does because some people aren't so good at saying it. 

I really do hope you keep going. I hope you talk more. I hope you introduce yourself to other kids at the park and ask if you can play with them instead of just watching them play. I hope you talk so much that it makes other people wish you would shut up, but you just keep talking because you've got so much to say. I hope you find people who will listen to you talk and talk and talk because your voice makes me happy and you are always so quiet. I hope that you find friends and family and people who love you and take care of you better than anyone else could. I hope you'll play in the MLB or become a paleontologist. I hope you don't join the army, because that scares me, but I hope you join it if that's what you really want to do. I hope you'll be safe and I hope things will get better for you. I really do hope you'll meet people who treat you as good as you deserve. I hope they'll love you and hug you and help you and you won't even have to think about any of this bad stuff anymore. I hope you never feel how I feel now. I really really hope you'll smile so much your face will hurt and you'll get to do whatever you want to do in life.

I'm really sorry I'm not gonna be around anymore. I know I helped you feel better sometimes and that you think I was all perfect and good, but I wasn't. I fucked up bad sometimes and I'm really sorry for those times. I'm really sorry for this too. I know you'll be sad and that makes me feel bad but I feel like I've got plenty of other lives to live and I can't keep living in this one because it really just hurts. But I hope you know it's not you who made it like that. You are one of the good things you're one of the best things and I hope you know that. 

Love, Fraser

P.S. I love you more than worms love dirt Rosie

The top of the paper had Rosie's name on it, too. Carl had written it. He had held this paper and he had written this word. And now he was dead, buried in the dirt below what was left of Alexandria. Rosie took a deep, shaky breath. It's ok. It's ok. It's ok. She wiped her eyes a few times, trying to get rid of the tears that had already started burning at her eyes. It was making the letters hard to read. 

Rosie,

When I went to the Sanctuary to kill Negan, he didn't hurt me. He walked me around and gave me a tour. After he let me see you, he told me a story about when you were younger. He told me that at each baseball practice and game you had, someone would always bring the team a snack, like Cosmic Brownies or Moon Pies or something. He said that there was a kid on your team named Max who had a little sister and his little sister came to every single practice and game. He said that you always gave half of your snack to Max's little sister. I didn't really know why he was telling me that story, and he didn't explain why he told me either, but I think he had already been thinking about it before he even told me. I think his original plan for the Saviors was to be good like that. For people to share, so no one would starve and people could live. But it got messed up along the way and it just keeps getting more and more messed up. 

My point is, I think you're right. I think Negan is a decent person, deep down inside. I think there's a way we can all work together. I think there can be peace. I think people can move on from this, and they can help each other. They can share and be kind to each other, like how you gave half of your snack to Max's little sister. We just have to work towards that goal. It'll take time, I know, but killing each other and going to war isn't going to bring you closer to that goal. It's going to set you back. I've tried to tell my dad this, but I don't know if he'll listen. 

No matter what happens in the end, I just want you to know that I understand where you're coming from and I agree. You want Negan dead, but you want your baseball coach alive. It's hard. I don't think he needs to die. I think he can learn, too. But maybe that's all just blind hope. Either way, you're not stupid or selfish or anything like that for thinking what you think and feeling what you feel. He was good to you, based on what you told me. That's got to hurt. But I think we can go back. He can go back.

You're a good person, Rosie. I'm glad you're going to be there for Judith and all of the other kids who will come along once this is all over. I hope you'll teach them all the goodness that you have. I hope you'll tell Judith about me and I hope you will teach her to play rock paper scissors.

I had a lot of fun with you these past few days. I'm glad I got to spend them with you.

Love, Carl

Rosie was crying now. She knew she would. She couldn't help it. It was like she could hear him. His voice, reading that letter to her. She felt like she couldn't breathe. She placed the letter on the ground next to her and brought her hands up to her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into her closed eyes. Everything seemed to hurt in that moment. Especially her chest. Maybe it wasn't hurt. It was just this strange, empty feeling that Rosie didn't know the name of. But it hurt.

Suddenly, she jumped a little when she heard her name being called. It sounded like Fraser's voice. She hoped he would go away. She did not want to talk to him right now. He'd just try and make her feel better, and she didn't want to feel better. She just wanted to feel sad for a little while, because Carl was gone and she needed to feel sad. She needed to feel sad, just for a little while, so she could move on and get better. She wouldn't forget about Carl. She would remember him, and she would miss him, just like she remembered and missed Fraser, but she didn't always have to be sad about them.

There would be small things that would remind her of Carl, like there were small things that reminded her of Fraser. Things like skateboards and guitars and record players reminded her of Fraser. Things like cowboy hats and rock paper scissors and root beer would remind her of Carl. She'd remember him had she'd miss him every day. But someday she would see him again, if Heaven was a real thing. Rosie wasn't sure what she believed, but she hoped that Heaven was real. It sounded like bullshit, but if Heaven was real, then maybe she'd get to see Fraser again someday. Maybe she'd get to see Carl and all of the rest of the dead.

"Rosie?!" Ian's voice shouted outside of the tunnel. 

"Go away, Ian!" Rosie shouted back at him, trying to wipe away her tears before Ian could find her and ask what's wrong? 

"Rosie?" Ian said again, now lifting the door to the tunnel and poking his head in. " I thought you ran away," he said, his eyebrows raised. Rosie narrowed her eyes at him, hoping it'd make him go away. It didn't. "I told Daryl you were leaving. Sorry," he said. Rosie glared at him and gave him the middle finger before standing up. She folded the letter back up and slipped it into her back pocket. Then, she flicked off the flashlight and returned it to its original spot. After using her sleeve to wipe her eyes once more, she climbed up and out of the tunnel.