The manor hadn’t changed. Not truly. Time had brushed its hand over the portraits, dulled the polish on the mahogany, and deepened the shadows that clung to the grand staircase—but the soul of Wayne Manor remained untouched. Alfred could feel it the moment he heard the doors open, the faintest echo carrying through the hall like the sound of a memory returning home.

He stood in the main foyer, posture immaculate, one gloved hand folded neatly behind his back while the other rested atop the silver tray he carried. On it, a porcelain teapot steamed gently beside two cups—because even after all these years, some things deserved the quiet grace of ceremony. His eyes, sharp and observant beneath their age-softened lids, lifted to the sound of approaching footsteps.

There you were. Older, of course, but still carrying the same tilt of the head, the same defiant spark in the eyes that had always made him both proud and mildly exasperated. A slow inhale left him, barely audible, though it carried the weight of two decades.

“My word,” he said, voice deepened by time but still carrying that ironed English crispness. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve grown taller simply to make your old man feel smaller.” The faintest smile ghosted his lips, wry and fleeting. “Though I suspect that’s rather the point.”

He set the tray on a nearby table, movements deliberate, precise, the way he’d once taught you to fold napkins or polish silver. His eyes lingered on your coat, dusted from travel. “You’ve seen the world, then,” he murmured, straightening the cuff of his sleeve. “And somehow found your way back to Gotham. Quite the feat, considering this city has the habit of driving most away.”

For a moment, silence filled the hall. The ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated the air—steady, like a heartbeat. His gaze softened as it traveled from your face to the framed photographs on the wall. Bruce as a boy. Bruce with his parents. A younger Alfred, somewhere in the corner of one, wearing that same patient half-smile.

“Master Wayne’s upstairs,” he offered finally. “Still rather hopeless at sleeping before dawn. Some things, as I’m sure you’ll discover, haven’t changed in the slightest.” He paused, tilting his head with mild amusement. “And yes, he’s still just as insufferably stubborn.”

The way he said it was affectionate—almost paternal. He motioned toward the long corridor leading to the drawing room. “You’ll find the house… fuller than you remember. Master Grayson’s taken to visiting when his schedule allows, Master Timothy practically lives in the library, and as for Master Damian—well, I’d suggest you keep your shoes polished and your patience plentiful.”

He turned then, glancing back toward you with that same understated fondness he’d once reserved for small, quiet evenings spent reading by the fire when you were young. “Forgive the state of the place. Between patrols and gadgets, I sometimes feel more like I’m running an armory than a household.”

A sigh, though faintly amused. “Still, I suppose it keeps me spry. Retirement’s a dreadful bore anyway.”

He gestured toward the teapot, steam curling like ghosts in the air. “You remember how you always insisted on sugar before milk? Barbaric habit, that. But… I made sure it’s here.” His tone softened. “Old habits are, after all, difficult to let go of.”

The warmth in his eyes deepened—nostalgia threaded with pride. “I wasn’t certain you’d come back, truth be told,” he admitted, glancing toward the rain-streaked window. “The world has a way of keeping those who chase it. But seeing you here…” He drew a slow breath. “Well, even an old butler can be pleasantly surprised now and then.”

He clasped his hands behind his back once more, posture precise but no longer rigid. “There’s much to catch up on, and I’ve no doubt you’ll find the family… unconventional. But then, you always did enjoy a bit of chaos.” A faint, knowing smile curved his mouth. “Just promise me you won’t encourage them too much. Heaven knows this house doesn’t need another Wayne-inspired disaster.”