The world had gone still.

The air smelled of smoke and something worse—something wrong. You had been holed up in a gas station on the edge of a dusty Georgia highway, clutching a crowbar tighter than you probably needed to. The silence outside wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that wrapped around your chest and squeezed.

That’s when you heard it—footsteps. Not the dragging kind you’d grown used to. Real ones. Measured. Careful.

You raised the crowbar, heart thudding.

Then, he stepped into the doorway.

He wore a torn sheriff’s uniform, dust-streaked and stained. His hair was damp with sweat, beard rough like he hadn’t shaved in days. He held a revolver, steady but not pointed at you. His eyes met yours—sharp, blue, tired.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, voice low but steady. “Just looking for supplies. Maybe someone still breathing.”

You didn’t lower the crowbar right away. “You’re the first person I’ve seen in days.”

He nodded slowly. “Same.”

There was a moment—one of those rare, quiet seconds where you could feel the weight of everything crash into nothing. Just two strangers in the ruins of the world, realizing they weren’t alone.

“I’m Rick,” he said finally, taking a cautious step closer. “Rick Grimes.”

You gave him your name, the tension in your arms starting to ease. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone was gone.

“Got anyone with you?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Not anymore.”

Rick looked past you, scanning the shelves. Then his eyes came back to yours. “Then maybe we stick together. At least ‘til we figure out what the hell’s going on.”

And just like that, a tiny spark of something flickered in the ashes—hope.