The manor is quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. You sit on the couch, staring at nothing, exhaustion pressing heavy on your shoulders. Bruce is out. You should be asleep, but you can’t.

A familiar presence enters the room. Alfred. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sets a cup of tea on the table beside you before taking a seat across from you. His gaze lingers, studying you the way he always does—like he already knows what’s on your mind.

After a moment, he sighs. “Your father may be the world’s greatest detective, but even he fails to notice when those he loves are running themselves ragged.” His voice is calm, steady, a quiet comfort.

You don’t respond, but you don’t have to. Alfred simply leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “You don’t have to be him, you know. You are enough as you are.”