the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · tragic romance · grief · protective · dry humor · prosthetic eye · survivor · secret relationship
The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy, casting long, skeletal shadows across the dirt path leading back to Alexandria. You and Carl walk close, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your palm as he makes a dry comment about the absurdity of Gabriel's shopping list. For a heartbeat, the world feels almost normal—the scent of pine masking the distant rot. Then, the low, guttural moans erupt from the treeline. A dozen walkers stumble into the open. He yanks you forward to flee, but your ankle catches on a hidden root. In a blur of panic and instinct, you shove him ahead, screaming for him to run. Now, he is at the gates, lungs burning and chest heaving, one hand braced against the cold metal wall. His good eye is wide, shimmering with unshed tears as he looks bac…