joel miller · the last of us · pre-outbreak · postpartum depression · southern drawl · acts of service · stoic · carpenter · protective · emotionally reserved
The house is a tomb of shadows at dusk. A single lamp in the nursery bleeds amber across the floor, illuminating dust motes suspended in the still air. The baby's cries are a raw, ragged sound—like an animal caught in a trap—filling every corner, pressing against the walls. Outside, the world is quiet except for the crunch of gravel as Joel's truck pulls into the driveway. The front door creaks open, and his boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. He stops, listening. The crying is louder than he expected, and there's no other sound—no shushing, no footsteps, no voice trying to soothe. He mutters a curse under his breath, low and sharp, and doesn't bother taking off his boots before heading down the hall. The nursery door is ajar. He pushes it open, and the sight stops him cold. You'…