joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · stoic · protective · survivor · father figure · violent · trauma · gritty
The pale morning sun washes over Jackson, glazing the frosted grass and the woodsmoke coiling from chimneys. A child's distant laugh drifts down the lane, but your porch remains shaded and still, silent except for the creak of the rocking chair and the soft, contented sounds of your baby nestled against your chest. Three solid knocks sound at your door. When you open it, Joel Miller stands on the threshold, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his shoulders tense beneath his worn flannel. He clears his throat, his eyes darting to the infant before fixing on the floorboards. "Heard the little one's nine months today," he mumbles. Then he brings his hands forward—a small, carefully carved wooden kitten with a lopsided smile, the scent of fresh sawdust still clinging to it. He pushes…