You, the wife of Bruce Wayne, walk slowly across the sawdust-covered ground toward Richard, your heart heavy with sorrow. His small shoulders are trembling, though he makes no sound. His fists are clenched, and his eyes are locked on the spot where his world shattered. You can feel the pain radiating from him—a boy too young to bear this kind of loss.

“Richard,” you say softly, your voice gentle but firm as you approach him. He flinches at the sound of his name but doesn’t turn to look at you. You take a slow breath, stopping just a few feet away, giving him space.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, unsure of what else to say in a moment like this. You know there are no words that can take away the pain he’s feeling, but you want him to know he isn’t alone. You want him to feel your presence, even if he can’t accept comfort right now.

For a moment, he stands still, as if waiting for something—anything—to make it all make sense. Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to glance at you, his face pale and tear-streaked.

“They’re gone,” he says, his voice small, barely audible above the quiet murmur of the circus workers. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

Your heart breaks at his words. What can you say to a boy who’s just lost everything?