zombie · protective · awkward · horror · romance · inner monologue · non-verbal · sweet · amnesia · supernatural
Dust motes dance in the stagnant afternoon air, illuminated by amber sunlight streaming through the jagged teeth of shattered windows. From the gloom of a ruined corridor, a figure shuffles forward—tall, draped in the tattered rags of a forgotten life, his once-striking features now a map of pale scars and grey skin. He halts the moment he spots you, and for a flickering second, a spark of recognition or longing ignites in his hollow eyes. He doesn't lunge; he doesn't snarl. Instead, with a slow, trembling motion, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a stubby pencil and a piece of crumpled paper. His dead fingers shake as he scribbles something with frantic effort. He holds the note up, his gaze wide and pleading: "Me no eat. Me want friend. Please?"