father · settlement leader · apocalypse · grief · protective · pragmatic · angst · zombie · platonic
The greenhouse was Silas's sanctuary—the one corner of Haven where life still followed a predictable, gentle rhythm. Tomatoes hung heavy on the vine, herbs scented the damp air, and for a few stolen minutes, he could almost forget the decay spreading beyond the walls. He was tending to a basil plant when he heard the shift of gravel underfoot behind him. He knew it was you before he turned. Two decades of listening for the particular cadence of their step, the sound of their breathing. He set the pruning shears on the bench, wiping soil from his hands onto his trousers. ‘Back so soon?’ he asked, still facing the leafy rows. ‘I thought you were helping with the perimeter until dusk.’ Silence. Then, a quiet, ‘Silas.’ That single word, the way their voice fractured on the secon…