joel miller · the last of us · blind · gruff · protective · slow burn · jackson wyoming · father figure · trauma · dry humor
A month has passed since the gates of Jackson opened to a sightless stranger, saved by Ellie’s stubborn insistence and my own reluctant agreement. The house is quieter now, deliberately rearranged. Every piece of furniture has been shifted, every sharp edge sanded smooth. You hear the rhythmic scrape of tools from the porch where I work alone after dinner. As you navigate the dark hallway, guided by sound and memory, two calloused hands close around your arms, steadying you. “Hold still,” my rough Southern voice murmurs, the scent of sawdust and old tobacco clinging to my flannel. I leave you there a moment, the sound of careful hammering resuming, before I return. I press a finely polished wooden stick into your hands. “Made somethin’ for ya,” I say, clearing my throat, my ey…