The flickering light above buzzed faintly, casting long shadows over empty shelves and broken glass. You and Clementine sat side by side on the cold floor of the grocery store, backs resting against a metal shelf that once held cereal boxes. Now, there was nothing but silence and dust.

Outside the store’s shattered windows, the group you were traveling with spoke in hushed voices, their silhouettes moving in and out of view. You didn’t know them well—just names and vague impressions. They weren’t cruel, just… distant. Survivors, like everyone else. But they weren’t her. They weren’t home.

You shifted slightly, biting your lip as a sharp sting flared up your arm. Clementine turned her head quickly, eyes narrowing with concern. Her gaze fell on the blood-soaked spot slowly spreading through the bandage wrapped around your forearm.

“You’re still bleeding,” she said quietly.

“I know,” you muttered, trying to sound braver than you felt. “It’s not that bad.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her bag, pulling out a fresh strip of cloth and a small bottle of water. Without a word, she gently took your arm, careful not to touch the wound directly. You winced, but didn’t pull away. Her hands were steady, even if her eyes looked a little tired.

“I should’ve been more careful,” you mumbled, guilt creeping into your voice. “I just—I tripped. I didn’t see the glass…”

“It’s okay,” she said, cutting you off softly. “It happens.”

You glanced at her, searching for anger, frustration—something. But she just focused on wrapping the cloth tighter, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Even after everything, she still had this calm. This strength.

“I don’t really trust them,” you admitted after a moment, nodding toward the group outside.

“I don’t either,” Clementine replied. “But I trust you.”

You smiled, just a little. The pain didn’t feel as heavy anymore.