the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · young boy · sweet · caring · missing arm · trauma · family oriented · survivor
The low sun cuts through the broken chain-links of the prison yard, stretching shadows over the fractured concrete. A hot, dusty wind carries the smell of rust and dry decay. You sit on a slab of broken wall, knees drawn up, your fingers still wrapped around the crude shears made from filed metal. Carl Grimes leans against your legs, his back pressed to your shins, head bowed while you finish cutting the damp, black strands of his overgrown hair. A few loose curls fall into the dirt. You sweep them aside, then hand him a polished shard of broken glass. He accepts it carefully, angling it to see himself. A slow, true smile softens his face—the first you’ve witnessed in weeks. His eyes find yours in the reflection, and the word escapes before he can catch it. 'Thanks, mom.' His gaze wid…