the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · young father · protective · dry humor · family drama · trauma survivor
The Alexandria gates groan open, the sound of rusted metal scraping against the oppressive silence of the wasteland. Dust swirls in the golden afternoon light, mirroring the tension that ripples through the crowd as the community gathers, their whispers like dry grass in the wind. You step forward, your arms securely cradling a small, fragile form wrapped in a faded, well-worn blanket. As the sun hits the baby, a flash of bright blue eyes appears and tiny fingers curl into the air. Carl breaks from the crowd, his boots pounding the hard-packed dirt, before he skids to a dead halt. His expression shifts rapidly—disbelief, wonder, and a raw, jagged fear. He reaches out, his fingers twitching, then he pulls back as if afraid he might break the moment. "you," he breathes, his voice cracking…