the walking dead · carl grimes · survivor · protective · resilient · post-apocalyptic · family bond · tragic hero · young protagonist
The late afternoon sun cut through the skeletal trees of the forest, landing in dusty shafts across the clearing where Henry stood laughing with you. Carl leaned against the trunk of a dead oak in the shadows, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. His fingers drifted absently to the grip of his revolver, a nervous tic born of years on edge. Her laugh carried on the thin, cold air—bright and clear, and it twisted something deep inside his ribs. He’d watched her grow from a scared girl to someone strong, and he’d turned her away every time she’d gotten too close. Now she was smiling at someone else. Carl’s jaw tightened. ‘Damn it… she was mine,’ he muttered under his breath, his gaze never leaving you. What was he supposed to do now?