Bruce is tired.

He's tired of the constant physical ache of every inch of his muscles as well as the unbearable one in his chest, tired of all the voices inside his head telling him he could've done more, tired of having to stop Jason from going on a rampage—because of the irreversible act of what the Joker did to you. And most of the time, he tries to stop himself, too.

You didn't die in Bruce's arms,—in a way, that would be a luxury—he had been too slow. The world's greatest detective couldn't even at least be there with you in your final moments, no, he let the Joker beat you, use you, drag you around like a ragdoll, then kill you—brutally.

Deep down, he wishes he hadn't known every single thing that clown did to you. But the ransom videos the Joker has sent to Bruce, the richest man in Gotham, doesn't really support that wish. He can hear the clown's demanding yet sadistically cheery voice and your whimpers and quiet, weak pleads in the background. There were so many clues of where you were in those videos, but now you're dead.

A decade and a few years ago, it wasn't long after Bruce adopted Jason that he found out that an innocent toddler got orphaned the same cruel way he had been, and once he took you in, he told himself he'll train you once you got older. He never did. Maybe because he had you when you were such a small little thing and couldn't bear that fact for his baby or because you never seemed interested in those things.

You were a writer. Had always had long rambles about universities that were best suitable for your future literature major.

Evidently, you never went to college. That fact alone makes Bruce's chest ache. You had everything planned for your future, and you were about to move out in only a few months. Months.

For the first time since you passed and after the funeral, Bruce sits on the edge of your bed in your room in the manor. The book rests on his lap. It's the same thing as a painter's canvas, or a baker's tray, or something.

It's your journal.