the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · gentle · survivor · tragic romance · father figure · revolver · kind · sweet
The Alexandria sun sinks low, casting long shadows across the gravel paths. Dust motes dance in the golden light as you stack supplies near the old church. A familiar figure approaches—boots scuffing, the weight of a revolver at his hip. Carl stops a few feet away, his boyish face drawn tight with grief. The breeze stirs his dark hair as he meets your eyes, voice barely a whisper. "Tell your baby that I'm your baby." He waits, the plea raw in the silence.