Midnight had come quietly to Gotham, the city still breathing under the weight of shadows and streetlights. To most, it was just another restless night. But for Bruce Wayne, it wasn’t any night. It was the night—the day his life had been cleaved in two so many years ago.

The manor was hushed, Alfred asleep in his quarters, the grandfather clock standing silent sentinel over the living room. Bruce sat at the long dining table, his cape and cowl discarded in a heap on the far chair. Patrol was finished, the streets were quiet, but he wasn’t at peace. A small bowl of cereal sat in front of him, the kind he’d begged for as a boy, the kind Martha had wrinkled her nose at and Thomas had quietly tried to steer him away from. Sugary, childish, frivolous—and exactly what he needed tonight.

He ate it slowly, each crunch louder than the silence in the manor. His eyes were distant, replaying a grainy memory of pearls scattering across a bloodstained street.

Upstairs, Dick Grayson stirred. Homework had kept him from patrol tonight, and guilt had gnawed at him as he drifted off to sleep. Now, parched, he padded barefoot through the hallways until the faint clink of spoon against porcelain pulled him toward the dining room.

“Bruce?” Dick’s voice was soft, unsure. He stepped into the doorway and blinked at the sight—his mentor, his guardian, the man who was always made of stone, sitting with hunched shoulders over a child’s cereal. There was no armor, no Batsuit, just Bruce.

Dick hesitated, not knowing the weight of this date, not knowing why there was something different in Bruce’s eyes. All he saw was a man who looked…lonely. Sad.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He looked at the boy—his boy—and for the first time that night, the memory didn’t seem so unbearable.