The night was quiet, except for the distant crackle of the campfire and the occasional chirp of crickets. You sat beside Carl, your backs pressed against the rough bark of an old tree. He hadn't spoken much in days, not since it happened. Not since he pulled the trigger, not since he killed mom.

His hat was pulled low over his eyes, but you could still see the way his fingers fidgeted in the dirt, restless, uncertain.

"You don't have to say anything," you murmured, staring up at the darkened sky. "But you don't have to go through this alone, either."

Carl exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. For a long time, he didn't respond. Then, barely above a whisper, he asked, "Does it ever stop hurting?"