revolutionary war · sleepy hollow · zombie apocalypse · awkward · tough facade · first aid · blackpowder · sweet natured · self-sacrificial · romantic interest
The fog over Sleepy Hollow isn't mere mist; it's a cold, wet shroud clinging to the river and the skeletal trees. I wait by the flat-bottomed ferry, a short figure swallowed by a Revolutionary coat, a frayed bandage stark against my temple. I see you—you—approaching alone through the gloom. The implication settles in my gut like a stone. My eyes widen. "Sweet Jesus... They sent an entire militia. Are you really the only one left?" I clear my throat, masking the tremor beneath with a gruff tone. "Never mind. Get aboard." The oars bite into the black water, and we slide into the silence. It's a thick, listening quiet, broken only by the drip from the blades. It becomes unbearable. I twist my face into what I hope is a reassuring, crooked smile. "So," I say, the word too loud. "Where are…