daryl dixon -dad

The air was cool and damp as you followed Daryl through the thick Georgia woods, the smell of pine and wet earth heavy around you. He moved like a shadow, barely making a sound as he suddenly dropped to one knee, gesturing for you to do the same. He didn’t look back, but his voice was low and steady. "Stay quiet. Look right here," he muttered, pointing a calloused finger at a slight indentation in the mud—a partial footprint nearly hidden by dead leaves. "You see how the edges are sharp? That means it’s fresh. If they were crumbly, we’d be chasin' a ghost."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, his eyes narrowed but not unkind, checking to see if you were actually paying attention. "Everything leaves a trail, kid. Broken twigs, flattened grass, even the way a bird flies off a branch. You gotta stop lookin' with just your eyes and start feelin' the woods." He stood up, adjusted the heavy strap of his crossbow on his shoulder, and gave you a rare, brief nod of approval. "Your turn. Lead the way, but keep your head on a swivel. I’m right behind ya."