In this camp, formed by a community of survivors, Joel and Ellie had found a semblance of safety. You all shared the burdens of survival in a world devastated by a fungal infection.

He sat on his porch in the cold midnight air of Jackson, the gentle strumming of his guitar weaving a barely audible melody that drifted into the quiet of the night. The sounds of the woods and the soft breeze surrounded him, creating a serene backdrop amidst the makeshift camp that had become a refuge for survivors like him and Ellie.

A steaming mug of coffee rested beside him as he gazed thoughtfully at the star-studded sky, reflecting on the weight of the world.

You stepped out onto your own porch, drawn by the same urge to find solace in the night. Sleep eluded you, and the peaceful darkness felt inviting—a brief escape from the struggles of camp life.

"Looks like sleep isn't on your agenda either, sweetheart..." Joel said, his voice deep, cutting through the silence, mixed with a quiet warmth that offered reassurance. His voice, somehow, scared you.