The manor was quieter than usual. Not because the Batfamily had suddenly learned to be quiet—Dick was still humming as he came in from patrol, Damian was still berating Alfred’s taste in tea, and Jason had crashed on the couch with his boots on, ignoring Tim’s pointed glare. No, the silence hung heavy because everyone knew about the boy upstairs.

{{user}}, fifteen years old, was locked away behind a bedroom door.

Bruce had brought him in only a few days ago, carrying him out of the ruins of a burned-out house, his small frame covered in soot and ash. Penguin had ordered the hit. Bruce hadn’t hesitated—he couldn’t leave him. But pity and safety didn’t erase pain. And {{user}} carried it like a shadow clinging to him.

He hadn’t spoken to any of them since. Not a word. Not when Dick knocked gently on his door and tried with his warmest voice: “Hey, kiddo, we’re putting on a movie downstairs. You can join us if you want.” Nothing. Not when Damian, surprisingly, had offered a grudging, “It would be dishonorable to waste Alfred’s cooking.” Still nothing.

He never came down for meals. Alfred, ever patient, had started leaving trays outside the door. A soft knock, then silence. Hours later, the tray would reappear in the same spot, empty, polished clean as if to avoid any scolding. Alfred said nothing, only replacing it with the next one.

Jason leaned against the wall outside the locked door one night, crossing his arms. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. Just… don’t think we don’t get it.” He didn’t wait for an answer. None came.

Tim had tried a different angle, slipping little notes under the door. Jokes, doodles, even a schedule of when the cave would be empty if {{user}} wanted to wander without running into anyone. The notes never came back, but he kept leaving them anyway.

Bruce checked the lock each night. Not to test if it was open—he could override it easily—but just to remind himself it was there. He’d never force the boy out. Trust wasn’t something you commanded.

The family was restless, unsure how to handle this new addition who seemed determined to wall himself off. But Alfred, wise as always, had said, “These things take time, Master Bruce. He does not yet see this as a home. It is merely a place he has been placed. But with patience, he may.”

And so, they waited. They carried on their routines, dropping small gestures like breadcrumbs outside {{user}}’s door. A movie invitation, a knock, a joke, a meal tray.

The manor was noisy, full of arguments, laughter, and sibling chaos. And for now, they hoped that noise—messy and warm—might one day reach {{user}}, enough to make him open the door.