It's like a dream (Narrative)
Michonne felt clean sheets. She smelled potpourri or an air freshener. She felt clean. She was wrapped in a soft night shirt. The pillow next to her smelled like a man she cared about deeply. She heard the sounds of children playing.
It was a dream, she was sure. The dream she'd had before. The one of the future. Only this time, she knew it was a dream. Sleep was fading from her, and she fought to stay. They were like cats, her and Dean. They fought, disagreed, but they seemed to always make up and find themselves curled around one another. She hadn't expected to like him at all. She certainly hadn't expected to find in him somebody she could confide in. Or be comfortable around. And she really really hadn't thought that she'd develop real feelings for him. All of which had happened. She remembered how sad she'd felt at the idea of that dream not becoming a reality.
The warrior realized that she was going to have to face the world eventually, and that it was better to get it out of the way. She was ready to open her eyes and look at the dingy walls of her small apartment. To spend the day hunting the creatures on the other side of the wall, to ready themselves to the move to a new place.
Reality did not want to replace the dream, though. Even with her eyes open, she was still in the fantasy. But the sound of children laughing was coming through the open window - open, a thing that would never happen in die Festung. The fresh sheets slid over her skin like a whisper. There were flowers by the bed.
The pillow smelled like Dean, but he was not there. Nor was there a spot of warmth, or a dent in the cotton.
Frowning, Michonne rose.
Oh, it was really just like the dream. Cleaner. Yes. Much cleaner. Sparse, like an apartment she would have had now, after everything she'd been through, but clean. There were actual matching dishes in the kitchen when she peered in, waiting in the draining rack as if she'd just done them. There was food - in packages in the fridge, a working fridge. Clothes in the closet, a mixture of things she would have worn in her old job, as a lawyer, and things that she would have chosen to fight in.
Her sword was there, too, though it was lovingly placed in a display where an ordinary person might have placed a television. There were shelves of books, and the second bedroom was converted into an office.
But no Dean.
Not even a trace of him outside the smell on her pillow.
Michonne returned to the bedroom and looked out the window. She saw a city out there, not one she knew, but it was bustling with life. Her heart ached. Was he out there somewhere? Looking for her?
Other questions plagued her as well, of course. How had she gotten here? Where was she? Where were all of the others? But Dean...
She returned to the kitchen briefly, scrounging around for a plastic bag. Sentiment was something Michonne had abandoned a long time ago, yet she couldn't help herself. With trash bag in hand, she went to the pillow. She breathed deep the smell of the man who she was unsure of seeing ever again before placing it within the plastic. Just in case. Just in case. She wanted this. To be there for her. Until she the smell dissipated from the fabric completely, she wanted it. Or until she found him.
Oh, she hoped she found him.
After tucking the wrapped pillow away in a closet, high on a shelf, Michonne dressed herself, grabbed her sword and headed outside.