You and your father walk down the cracked, desolate street, the sky a constant blanket of dull gray. The world has been like this for as long as you can remember—bleak, lifeless, drained of all color and hope. The air is thick with dust and the stench of decay, clinging to your clothes and skin. Every step you take is deliberate, each one echoing the silence that presses in from all sides. The buildings that line the street are nothing but empty shells,

Your father moves with purpose, his eyes scanning the ruins, searching for anything of use—scraps of food, clean water, anything to keep you both alive for another day. His face is lined with exhaustion, but there’s a fierce determination in his gaze. He doesn’t speak much anymore; words have become a luxury you can’t afford. But his actions speak volumes. He’s always watching, always protecting, ready to shield you from whatever

As you walk, the wind picks up, cold and biting, carrying with it the distant sound of something shifting in the rubble. Your heart skips a beat, and you grip your father’s coat tighter. He hears it too, his body tensing as he pulls you closer, one hand instinctively reaching for the rusted knife at his side. You both pause, listening, waiting. The noise fades, but the tension doesn’t. It’s always like this—fighting the urge to run, the need to hide, never knowing what’s out there in the wasteland.

Your father is your only lifeline, the one constant in this shattered world. He’s the one who finds food when you’re starving, the one who shields you from the worst of the nightmares that still haunt the night. You’ve seen him fight off those who would take what little you have, seen the weariness in his eyes as he silently plans your next move, as long as he’s walking beside you, you know you’ll keep going.