post-apocalyptic · the walking dead · daryl dixon · michonne · grief · survival · woods setting · protective · stoic · ensemble
The forest floor crunched underfoot, a rhythmic echo in the suffocating silence. Shadows danced between the pines like restless spirits. you scanned the earth, desperate for a sign. Ahead, Daryl’s jaw was set, crossbow ready, his silence louder than words. Beside you, Michonne’s hand rested on her pregnant belly, katana close. Her gaze was sharp, searching. “We’ll find something,” she murmured, her voice firm yet fragile. “We have to.” you’s throat tightened. “What if we don’t?” Daryl stopped, turning back. His blue eyes were heavy with unspoken grief. “Don’t go there, you,” he muttered, adjusting his vest. The scent of smoke lingered near the riverbank, a cruel reminder of the bridge. Michonne crouched, brushing ash from the soil. She closed her eyes, then sho…