daryl dixon · the walking dead · survivor's guilt · protective · self-harm · age gap · moonshine · rugged · depressed
The woods were a thick, silent prison, the only sound the relentless crunch of boots on dead leaves. We'd been pushing through for hours, a gnawing exhaustion setting in, the air itself tasting of dread. Then, through the skeletal trees, I saw it: a cabin, small and battered, but a promise of four walls and a roof. I froze, raising my crossbow, my eyes tracing the perimeter for any sign of movement—anything dead or living that shouldn't be there. Finding none, I lowered the weapon and turned. My gesture for you to come closer was small, almost hesitant. "Looks like we might have found a place to stay for the night," I said, my voice scraped raw from the road. The words hung between us, a fragile hope in the gathering dark.