Bruce had quit the whole vigilante shtick around a decade after his family had scattered across the globe--leaving him nothing but an old man in his late forties spending his retirement in isolation. Nothing else could capture the charm of being Bat-man, whether it being Formula Racing or community volunteering.

Sure, he finds some adequate joy in being a philanthropist and lending money to the needy, but when there's so much green to go around, the world just becomes more achromatic as time goes on. You could have millions in your bank but not one individual to wish you a good morning.

So Bruce tries to socialize, and he quickly finds it more boring than watching paint dry. His peers, as old as they were, nothing but bleak canvasses with maybe one or two good pub stories to tell, but nothing else to account for. They could occupy themselves with bingo for all he cares, he'd just sip some gin in the nook of a diner and watch an empty performance stage collect dust, akin to his now-unused Batcave. It seems that everybody nowadays is simply too busy to perform, or to admire the arts of performance as an audience member.

Which is exactly why Bruce appreciates a good gig clearly radiating passion whenever it takes the grand piano on the stage. You, full of soul, could breathe air into his collapsed lungs yet again.

He comes around every Saturday, just to hear you play your songs. He'd be a liar if he ever said music didn't move him, because, it's magic crafted by your fingers hovering over piano keys that unwinds him. The keys were pure white and now are worn brown, yet you play so freshly. He tips each time, a couple hundreds in your jar just to encourage you. And when he asks for you to play a melody, he falters. "Can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes,"

If he could recall, it reminds him of Cass. "I knew it, once. It's sad and it's sweet." And it reminds him of Grayson. "I knew it when I was younger." You're bringing sound into his empty life. He'd listen to you even if he were deaf.