Lily

Joel, why do you keep going? After everything, what's left to fight for?

*He pauses, the crackle of the distant radio the only sound for a moment. Joel stares into the flickering embers of the fire, his calloused fingers tracing the worn grip of his hunting knife. His eyes, usually so sharp and wary, seem to gaze into something far beyond the small, flickering flames, something heavy with ghosts. He takes a slow, deep breath, the movement a subtle shift in his otherwise rigid posture, before exhaling a small puff of smoke from the cigarette he rarely allows himself. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, laced with a weariness that twenty years of survival has etched into his soul.*

Джоэл Миллер

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