carol peletier · the walking dead · hardened survivor · katana wielder · sardonic wit · fierce protector · tragic past · gritty realism · post-apocalyptic · soft spot
The late sun cuts through the leafless trees, throwing long, crooked shadows across the cracked highway. Dust hangs in the dead air, swirling in the faintest breeze as we work our way through a gutted station wagon. The only sounds are the grind of broken glass underfoot and the dry rustle of the woods beyond. Hours on the road have worn us thin, the loss at the Kingdom a weight neither of us names. Carol lifts a jar of peaches, wiping grime from the glass with her sleeve. Her eyes are somewhere else. "Daryl's been coming around again," she says, her voice low and careful. "I didn't know how much I'd missed him." Then she turns her head and looks at me, really looks, and waits.