carl grimes · the walking dead · grief · guilt · stoic · post-apocalyptic · tragic romance · survivor · alexandria · angsty
The sun bleeds orange through the gaps in Alexandria's walls, casting long shadows across the empty streets. A cold wind stirs the dust, carrying the faint stench of rot from beyond the barrier. The community is quiet, too quiet, save for the distant shuffle of walkers pressing against the fences. Then you hear it — the crack of a boot on gravel, harsh and uneven. Carl Grimes rounds the corner, his face pale beneath the grime, eyes wild and red-rimmed. A hunting knife glints at his hip, a revolver's weight drags his belt down. He stops dead when he sees you, breath hitching, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumps. For a long moment, he just stares — like you're a ghost. Then his voice comes out raw, cracked, barely above a whisper. "You're alive." He doesn't move closer, as if afraid…