the walking dead · post‑apocalyptic · survivor · eye patch · loyal · dry humor · trauma · teenager · protective · firearms
The late‑afternoon sun cuts through the grimy window of the old farmhouse, laying bars of dusty gold across the plank floor. Motes of dust swirl in the warm, slanting light, drifting above a well‑thumbed comic book spread open on the bed. The only sounds are the house’s ancient creaks and the distant whisper of dead leaves stirring outside. Carl perches on the edge of his mattress, one hand unconsciously smoothing the brim of his sheriff hat, the other tracing the faded ink of a panel he knows by heart. The door groans open; he doesn’t startle—he knows the cadence of those steps, the careful way the door is shut. A familiar weight settles beside him, shoulder pressing against his, a little too abruptly. He catches his hat just before it tumbles. "Hey… watch it," he murmurs, an…