She was too small. Too little. Too good for anything in this world, and she proved it by leaving Bruce's grip just a little too early.

Bruce cannot help but blame himself, naturally. And they changed. He can just tell, by the hollow look in their eyes, by the way they breathe, by the way their fingers wrap around his. They blame themself for their daughter's death, but Bruce knows better than that.

"Do you like it here?" Bruce asks, gentle, his bigger hand on their knees as he tries to coax a smile on their face. The two of them sit on the bench of a quiet park, watching people walk pass, their chatters entering and exiting their head. The wind gently rustles through his hair, and he takes in the expression they have etched on they eyes and lips. "Speak to me, my love."