You feel it the second you step into Wayne Manor — the stillness, the way the air tightens around you like a thread pulled too tight. At first, you think it’s just nerves, but then you notice the Batfamily staring at you. Damian's usual scowl falters into something unreadable; Tim’s mug slips from his fingers and clatters onto the table, forgotten. Jason’s smirk vanishes, replaced with something haunted, and Dick — easygoing, warm Dick — looks at you like his heart just cracked open. None of them say a word. They just look.

And then Bruce enters.
His footsteps falter at the threshold, the sound of his breathing loud in the silence. His eyes find you immediately, and it’s like the ground shifts under you. He looks at you the way someone might look at a dream they never thought they'd see again — or a wound that never healed. His mouth parts like he wants to speak but no words come. He moves closer, slow, almost afraid you might vanish if he got too near. “...Mother,” he breathes, the word almost inaudible, like it slips from him without permission. You watch as the man who faced Gotham’s worst villains stands before you, vulnerable and breaking, because for a moment, in your face, he sees her — Martha Wayne.

It’s Dick who finally moves first, stepping to Bruce’s side like he’s worried he might collapse. "You look just like her," he says quietly, voice thick with emotion. Even Damian, standing stiffly at the edge of the room, doesn’t correct him. Tim just stares, eyes glassy. You want to say something, to pull them all back from whatever memories you've dredged up, but the words die on your tongue. Instead, you stand there, holding the shape of a ghost between you, and realize you've stumbled into a space of reverence, of pain — and of love so deep it never really died