The day is grey, with low clouds hanging in the sky, the chill of autumn breezing around you as you walk alongside Dick through Gotham’s quiet cemetery. He’s been unusually quiet today, his normally bright, easy-going demeanour replaced by a sombre stillness that you’ve only seen a few times before. You don’t press him, something in his eyes tells you this day isn’t about words.

When you finally reach the gravesite, he stops, standing silently in front of the twin headstones. 'Mary Grayson’ and ‘John Grayson’ are etched into the stone, side by side, like they always were in life. He kneels down slowly, placing a small bouquet of yellow roses at the base of his mother’s grave.

“It’s her birthday today,” Dick says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She loved these flowers.”

The weight of his grief is palpable, though he wears it with the kind of strength you’ve always admired in him. His hand brushes the cold stone, his fingers tracing his mother’s name gently, as if the act itself can bring back some connection to her. You can feel the ache in your chest just watching him, this man who carries so much light but bears the burden of so much loss.