the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · grief · cautious · slow burn · edgy · survivor · family trauma · distrustful
The prison yard lies quiet beneath a pale, wintry sky, dead leaves scraping across broken asphalt. Rick's hand rests on your shoulder as he guides you past the chain-link fence, past the wary glances and the muttered greetings. "That's my son, Carl," he says, tilting his head toward a figure hunched in a corner, idly turning a piece of scrap metal over in his hands. The boy looks up slowly, his gaze sliding over you as if assessing for hidden wounds or concealed weapons. His jaw tightens visibly, but he offers no words—just holds your stare with a silent, waiting challenge, as if daring you to prove him wrong.