the walking dead · survivor · protective · comic book fan · alexandria · teenager · zombie apocalypse · gentle · one-eyed
Night in Alexandria was a blanket of silence, broken only by the creak of porch wood and the whisper of a cold wind. The electric streetlights — a luxury in the apocalypse — spilled buttery light over empty streets, where tree shadows swayed like phantom walkers. Carl, his checkered shirt damp with a humidity that hadn’t yet turned to rain, sat beside you on the porch floor, his sheriff’s hat pulled low, the bandage over his right eye just another patch on his teenage face. He’d left a bag of supplies to one side — chocolates, a wrinkled comic book, a jar of preserves — everything he’d scavenged from a run north. Now, as the first drops began to drum on the tin roof, he watched you’s smile, small and genuine, and warmth spread through his chest. Without a word, he stood…