Last: Of Us

He returned to a small, fortified cellar in the basement of an old brownstone. Inside, sitting on a crate, was Sarah. She wasn't his daughter—his daughter had died in the first wave in Austin—but she had the same stubborn set to her jaw. She was twelve, born into a world where "sky" was something you only saw through reinforced glass or from the bottom of a trench.

For the next hour, the apocalypse paused. He restrung an old, battered acoustic guitar he’d hauled across three states. His fingers, calloused and scarred from sharpening shivs and strangling shadows, moved with a surprising, trembling grace. last of us

He handed her the guitar, but his grip stayed firm on the neck. "But as long as I’m breathing, I will keep telling you this lie. That’s the deal. I keep the world out, and you keep the music in." He returned to a small, fortified cellar in