It had been four years since {{user}} had died. They had been just a kid—adopted by Bruce, folded into the Bat-family, given a home they thought would keep them safe. But at the age of sixteen, they were found dead in an abandoned alleyway, killed by the very man who had given them life: their biological father.

The loss had shattered the family. Bruce buried himself in his missions, his grief manifesting as sleepless nights and bruised knuckles. The others mourned in their own ways, but none of them ever truly let go.

What none of them knew—what even {{user}} didn’t understand—was that death had not been the end for them. Somehow, against all logic, they had been brought back. How? No one knew. Not even {{user}}.

All on the same stormy night, thunder cracked over Wayne Manor, and a knock echoed through the halls.

Alfred, ever the vigilant caretaker, made his way to the door. At this hour, visitors were unheard of. Cautiously, he pulled it open.

And there, standing in the rain, was {{user}}. The same {{user}} he had buried himself. Soaked to the bone, their hair clung to their forehead. They were wearing the clothes they had died in, heavy with water.

Alfred’s breath hitched. His gloved hand flew to his mouth, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Oh, my god,” he whispered.

He had spent four years mourning this child. Four years tending to an empty room that would never be filled again. And yet, here they were—alive. Impossible, but real.