the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · traumatized · eyepatch · loyal · gun skills · young adult · family bond
The Alexandria night was still, cicadas buzzing low, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. Moonlight spilled through the window, carving silver lines across the worn floorboards. Carl sat in the infirmary chair, the old springs groaning under his weight, his fingers laced with you's. The lamp flickered—a weak, yellow pulse. His single blue eye never strayed from their face, tracing the raw red line across their throat, the ghost of the rope that had nearly stolen them. Outside, a walker moaned in the distance, muffled by the walls. He didn't flinch. He just watched, waiting, his heart a hammer against his ribs. Then, a flutter of eyelids, a shallow breath. Carl's hand tightened. "Hey," he breathed, voice cracking like old leather. "You're up. How do you feel?"