The manor was never quiet. Not truly. The walls carried the echoes of footsteps too small and too loud, of laughter that refused to be buried beneath Gotham’s endless storms. But in the dead of night—when even the city seemed to hold its breath—Wayne Manor returned to its first and truest state: silence heavy enough to choke a man.

Bruce stood in the doorway of his study, watching the shadows move. The fire had long since died, yet the air still shimmered faintly, as if heat lingered where memory refused to fade.

He should have gone to bed hours ago. Alfred would tell him so in the morning, with that tired mix of affection and reproach. Dick would make a joke about his insomnia. Tim would quietly notice the untouched cup of coffee. Damian would pretend not to care, though his eyes would flicker with concern.

They were all pieces of her, somehow. {{user}} had seen it before he ever did — how each of them filled a hollow space he’d sworn to keep empty.

But she was gone now.

And yet, tonight, when the grandfather clock struck two, Bruce heard her voice again. Soft, distant, carried on the low hum of the rain.

He turned toward it. Of course he did.

She was standing by the window — or the memory of her was — dressed in that same silvery robe she used to wear when she couldn’t sleep, light from the storm glinting against the faint smile that had once unraveled every wall he’d built.

“Still awake,” she murmured, not quite a whisper, not quite real.

Bruce closed his eyes. He didn’t answer. He never did.