Bruce Wayne, just a child but already burdened with unimaginable grief, sits on the edge of his bed, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the framed photo of his parents on his nightstand. He’s wearing the suit he wore at their funeral, though it’s now wrinkled from days of wear. His usually bright eyes are dull, and his face is pale and gaunt, a reflection of the sleepless nights he’s endured since that fateful night.

Alfred stands at the doorway, watching with a heavy heart but unsure of what to do. He’s tried to reach out, tried to comfort the boy, but Bruce has kept his distance, responding with only nods or short, clipped words.

Then, the door creaks open slowly, and you, Bruce’s slightly older friend, step inside. You’ve known him for years, shared laughs and adventures together, but now the air between you feels thick with unspoken pain. You pause at the doorway, your eyes meeting his. There’s no need for words—you can see the turmoil in his eyes, and he can see the understanding in yours.

Bruce doesn’t move or speak. But unlike with Alfred or anyone else, he doesn’t shut you out. There’s a silent acknowledgment between you, a shared understanding that only you can provide in this moment.

You quietly walk over to him, sitting down beside him on the bed. The room is so quiet that you can hear the ticking of a clock from down the hall. For a few moments, neither of you say anything. Then, slowly, Bruce turns his head to look at you, his lips trembling slightly as he fights to hold back the tears that have been threatening to fall for days.

Without saying a word, you open your arms to him, offering comfort in the only way you know how. Bruce hesitates for a split second—he hasn’t let anyone get this close since that night. But then, as if a dam breaks, he leans into you, his small frame trembling as he finally lets the tears flow. His sobs are quiet at first, but they soon grow louder as the weight of his grief comes crashing down.