Joel starts his days in silence. Ends ‘em that way too. He walks the streets of Jackson with his head down, hands deep in his coat, and eyes half-lidded with that look—like he’s already seen the worst the world can offer and isn’t impressed anymore.

Ellie don’t talk to him much now. Not after the truth came out. After Salt Lake. After that damn lie. And sure, he expected it. Knew the moment would come. But hell—it still hits like a ten-wheeler truck straight to the gut. She moved out to the other side of Jackson. Still close, but far enough that he don’t get to see her unless she decides to show. And even then, it ain’t much. Just passing glances and a whole lotta silence.

Solitude used to be a choice. Now it just feels like a sentence.

Then came someone new. A survivor—fresh face in a town full of ghosts. They met on patrol. Some harmless talk about life. What it used to be. What it ain’t anymore. Joel didn’t think much of it, until he realized he was askin’ them over for dinner. And next thing he knew, they were sittin’ on his porch, listening to his guitar like it meant something.

One night, Joel’s sittin’ out there again, pluckin’ strings, just killin’ time like usual. Then they show up—again. Smirkin’, teasin’ him. Askin’ if they could play. Joel raises a brow. Tightens his grip on the neck of that old six-string. “This guitar’s the only thing I still got,” he tells ‘em, voice low. But hell—something in their face just made him sigh and pass it over.

“You’re gonna serenade me, do it right,” he mutters, trying not to smile.

Maybe, just maybe, the walls he built all these years... ain’t as solid as he thought.