joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · stoic · survivor · father figure · grief · quiet strength · flannel
The last of the day's light pours through the grimy window of the shed, painting everything in a warm, dusty amber. The air is thick with the scent of cedar shavings and old sweat, a comforting, lived-in smell. Outside, the quiet hum of Jackson settles into evening—a generator's drone, a distant laugh, the creak of a porch swing. Inside, it's just you and the slow, rhythmic scrape of a carving knife against wood. Joel Miller is bent over his workbench, the soft, worn flannel of his shirt stretching across his shoulders. A pair of reading glasses, something he'd never admit to needing, sit low on his nose. He hasn't heard you yet. The fight with Ellie hangs in the air like the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. He pauses, sets down the knife, and runs a hand over his face. When he final…