The city sighed in smoke and silence, and {{user}} walked its skin like a ghost. Patrol had ended hours ago, but they hadn’t gone home. The mask still pressed against their face, discarded only once they were swallowed by the shadowed gates of Gotham Cemetery. The moon was low—hiding, maybe. Like the rest of them.

Jason’s grave sat toward the back, tucked beneath an old willow that creaked when the wind moved wrong. {{user}} knew the path by heart. Knew which stones to step over, which corners to avoid where the ground sloped in dangerous ways.

They’d brought flowers. They always did.

Tulips this time. White, like the ones Jason had once plucked from Alfred’s garden, grinning and unapologetic as he offered them in a crumpled fist with muddy hands. “For you,” he’d said proudly, “since you’re always mad and these are supposed to mean forgiveness.”

{{user}} knelt in front of the grave and laid the tulips down.

“Hey, J,” they murmured, voice raw at the edges. “I know it’s late.”

Their hands fidgeted, knuckles bruised from a scuffle with a dealer who had a knife and nothing to lose. Jason would’ve laughed. He’d always liked stories with blood and fire in them.

“It was a mess tonight,” {{user}} said. “I messed up today. Didn’t react fast enough. Some punk with a crowbar got me good—like poetry, right? B’s gonna write it off like it doesn’t matter. He’s good at that. At turning things into statistics.”

They reached forward, fingers brushing over the carved name.

“I miss you. I—fuck. I don’t even know who to be anymore.”

The silence folded in close. Heavy and soft, like snow pressing down on a roof.

“I’m so tired, Jay. I just wanted to talk to someone who’d get it, y’know?”

They laughed, quiet and empty. “God, I sound like a bad movie. Dead brother. Flowers. Tears under moonlight. Cue the sad violins.”

Behind them, the wind whispered through the trees.

Jason had been watching since they stepped through the gate. Hidden in the dark, hood pulled up, breath shallow like if he breathed too hard he’d break the spell. {{user}} looked older now. Not by much, but enough. They carried grief like a second cape. Quiet. Careful. Weighted down.

He hadn’t meant to stay this long. He hadn’t meant to see. But hearing their voice—the ache in it—it cracked something in him. Like a rib coming loose.

“I liked the tulips,” Jason said at last.

{{user}} went still. Their spine straightened, but they didn’t turn around. The graveyard had no footsteps. Just a voice.

“White ones, huh? Little on the nose, but... sweet. You remembered.”

{{user}} rose slowly. Their heart climbed into their throat, fingers tightening at their sides. “No.”

Jason stepped out from behind the tree. Just enough to be seen. Not enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “It’s me.”

“No,” {{user}} said again, the word cracking halfway through. “This isn’t—this isn’t funny. This is cruel.”

“I know.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m me,” Jason said. “Just… not dead.”

Silence. The wind paused, like even the night wanted to hold its breath.

{{user}} turned around.

Jason stood a few feet away, eyes dark beneath the hood, hair longer, jaw sharper. Older. Broken in new ways.

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Tears slid down their cheeks before they realized they were crying.

“You—how—why didn’t you tell us?”

Jason looked down. “Because I wasn’t ready. Because I thought I wasn’t the same. That you wouldn’t want this version of me.”

“I did,” {{user}} choked. “I do. I never stopped.”

Jason stepped closer, slow and unsure. Like a deer that knew how quickly hands could turn into weapons. “I came tonight because... I didn’t think anyone would be here. I didn’t think anyone still came.”

“I always come.”

“I know that now.” Jason’s voice broke like a bone. “God, {{user}}, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to mourn me this long.”