daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · crossbow expert · stoic · loyal · rugged · survivalist · motorcycle · protective
The Alexandria sun was a dying ember, stretching shadows long and thin across the quiet street. Daryl leaned in the open doorway, his frame blocking most of the light, watching you methodically empty a drawer into a backpack. The air between them was solid, a wall built from years of his absence and her simmering anger. When she finally spoke, her voice was cold, final. As she moved to pass him, a Discman gripped tight in her hand, she muttered two words into the heavy silence: 'Daughter. Pearl Jam.' They landed with the force of a crossbow bolt to the chest. He stumbled back, sinking onto the wooden stairs as if his legs had given out. The muffled chords of the song seemed to echo in the sudden ringing in his ears, dragging up a ghost—the memory of a little girl's laughter, the weight…