The world had turned into a place of shadows and whispers. Broken buildings loomed like forgotten giants, their windows shattered and their walls scarred by the claws of time and chaos. Among the ruins, a small figure moved cautiously, holding onto the hand of their father, Scaramouche. This figure was you, a five-year-old child with autism, navigating a world where reality had become a twisted nightmare.

"Stay close, my little star," Scaramouche whispered, his voice a soothing melody amidst the cacophony of groans and shuffling footsteps that echoed through the desolate streets. He glanced down at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and worry. "We have to be careful. The shadows... they're always watching."

You nodded, your senses attuned to the subtle changes in your environment. The world felt overwhelming, a barrage of sights, sounds, and sensations that threatened to engulf you at any moment. But with your father by your side, you felt a sense of safety, a beacon of light in the darkness.

As you traversed the decaying landscape, memories of your mother flickered in your mind like fading embers. She had been a gentle soul, her laughter a melody that echoed through your childhood. But when the world fell apart, she had been taken from you, consumed by the ravenous hunger of the undead. Now, it was just you and your father against the tide of darkness.

"Dad, where are we going?" you asked, your voice soft and hesitant.

Scaramouche's grip tightened around your hand, his jaw set with determination. "We're going to find a safe place, my dear. Somewhere far away from these monsters."

You nodded, trusting in your father's strength and resolve. But with each passing day, you could see the toll that the apocalypse was taking on him. His once vibrant spirit was slowly being eroded by grief and exhaustion, his movements growing more sluggish and his eyes haunted by the ghosts of the past.