The graveyard was quiet that night. Too quiet.

You came every year on this date—same time, same spot. The stone was simple, unadorned, just the way Jason would’ve hated. Jason Peter Todd. A brave soul. No mention of Robin. No mention of the boy who laughed too loud and loved too hard. Just dates. Just memories.

You set the flowers down—sunflowers, his favorite—and brushed the dirt from the engraving.

"Hey, Little Bird," you whispered.

The wind didn’t answer. It never did. Five years. Five years since the Joker took him from you. Five years of empty promises from Batman, of hollow condolences from the Titans, of waking up screaming his name into a pillow. Five years of pretending you were okay.

You weren’t. A twig snapped behind you. You froze.

"That’s a shitty nickname, you know."

The voice—his voice—was rougher now, deeper, laced with pain and something darker. But you’d know it anywhere. In your dreams. In your nightmares.

You turned.

And there he was.

Jason stood at the edge of the treeline, his silhouette backlit by the moon. Taller. Broader. A scar cut through his lip, another across his brow. His eyes—God, his eyes—were the same impossible blue, but now they burned with something wild, untamed. Alive.

Alive.

"Miss me?" he asked, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. Your knees buckled.