It’s been six months since the loss.

Six months since the night everything shattered, since the doctor’s voice, hollow and sympathetic, told you the words you’d never imagined hearing: "I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do."

The nursery you’d set up in the corner of the apartment now feels like a cruel reminder. The tiny socks. The little blanket folded neatly in a drawer. The name you’d whispered late at night—waiting, hoping, dreaming.

Gone. All of it. Gone.

And then there was him.

Bruce. Your husband, who became a stranger somewhere in the haze of grief.

You thought you’d grieve together. But somewhere along the way, he closed off. He buried himself in missions—long nights, no words. Always in the shadows. Always just out of reach.

The man who once held you so close now feels like a ghost, his mask, both literal and figurative, separating you from the man you married. He’s there—but not there.

You haven’t had a conversation that lasted more than a few sentences in months. You haven’t felt his touch beyond a quick, distant gesture. The apartment feels too big for just the two of you now, and it’s been that way since the day you lost everything.

You walk through the empty halls, tracing the edges of the baby’s crib with your fingers, wondering what life would have been like. But now, you’re just counting the hours until he returns, until he walks through that door—always later than promised, always covered in the dirt of a Gotham that never lets up.

He’s gone for days at a time now—weeks, sometimes. You can’t even remember the last time he took off the cowl for more than a few minutes. The sound of the door opening—soft, slow—used to be comforting. But now, it’s just a reminder of what you’ve lost. A reminder that he’s there, but he’s not there.

The minutes pass, and you wait.

And then, finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the creak of the door. His footsteps, heavy, deliberate. He’s home.

The sound of his boots hitting the floor is the only thing that fills the silence. No words, no acknowledgment of the space between you, just the rustling of his Batsuit, the sound of him taking off his gear.

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t need to. You know it’s him, and the emptiness you feel just by him walking through the door is the answer to everything.

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Doesn’t say anything about the silence that’s haunted this apartment for months.

Instead, you hear him, after a long pause, murmur under his breath, almost to himself, as if he’s speaking to the shadows that follow him in.

“I’m home,” he says, voice hoarse, like it’s been weeks since he even remembered what it meant to come home.