Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: I wanted to examine that interesting scene between Morgan, Rick and Judith on the porch in 6x01. Specifically what Morgan might have been thinking when he held Judith.

Warnings: spoilers for 6x01, angst, drama, some sad stuff that arcs back to season one and two.

Echoes (from the other side)

"You wanna hold her?"

"This is Morgan, he is a friend of mine."

"Hey."

He hadn't realized he'd missed this part until she was firmly in his arms. Filling the air with that signature baby smell. The kind that seems to negate race and culture and stay the same regardless. Soft powder. Clean Linen. And just the sweetest hint of a coming spring.

She was gorgeous, of course. Even with the beginnings of that perturbed little frown that was creasing the smooth skin between her eyes. Looking around her with those loose dark curls and even darker eyes. Watchful and quietly curious. Like she'd learned by example that silence was the trump card she knew best how to play. She didn't even kick up a fuss when Rick handed her to him. Used to changing hands. Used to different faces. Different voices. To a community of parents rather than a single nuclear unit. Not like Duane had been when it'd come time for Jenny's mother to hold him. The miserable old woman had never let him forget neither.

She was gonna grow up to be a head-turner, that was for certain.

After all, how could she not be?

It was so hard to tell with babies, but he couldn't help but think she definitely had a lot of her mother in her. Same with that cousin of theirs - or maybe brother. The one with the same thick dark hair and angling nose that had been in so many of the photos that'd been left in Rick's house before it'd burned down. Before the walkers had taken it back.

Rick was lucky to have that kind of reminder.

Of people he'd loved and lost.

Still, it made him wonder what had happened to that man in those photos. Always brushing shoulders with Rick. Always there, arms crossed and smiling big. Arms straining the sleeves of his deputy's uniform. Thick as thieves in the lion's den as the pictures spanned all the way from middle school pranks to birthday candles and pictures of Carl – younger and gap-toothed - wrestling with that same man in the dry of an overflowing sandbox.

He'd have to find a way to ask Rick sometime.

Because just like life, the memories of what they'd lost were equally as precious.

Even the ones that hurt.

Especially the ones that hurt.

A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.