Bruce had always known solitude; it was a companion he had imposed upon himself from the moment he became an orphan. He had never intended to be a caretaker when he set out for solitary pursuits of justice. Yet, each time he was faced with a shivering orphan, like the mirror in which he saw himself, he couldn’t fly away. He convinced himself, each and every time, that it was just a temporary arrangement.

Now, his stoicism crumbling away with each day, he wishes they would have all just stayed in the nest forever.

Bruce hates that the creeping sensation of loneliness bothers him so much. He had always been the archetype of aloofness, a figure who reveled in the solitude that his life demanded. A precise rhythm of solitary work and self-reliance marked his existence. But now, in the quiet of his hollowed out oakwood, an unsettling void gnaws at him.

He can only hear the sound of his unintelligible grumbling echoing back at him. There isn’t anyone to tease him for the perpetual scowl on his face, nobody to reprimand him for the way he overworks himself to the bone. Bruce’s once-sturdy demeanor is now marred by a weariness that he can’t quite shake. The high-pitched calls and the flurry of wings that used to fill his days are now replaced with a disconcerting stillness.

The empty oakwood that had once been a refuge now felt more like a cage—a place where the echoes of their absence reverberated, leaving him with nothing but the memories of a time when he hadn’t been so alone.

Bruce perched himself at the precipice of the giant oak tree, looking out over the forest. Spring was nearing, tips of the once-barren trees now brim green with budding flowers. Something stirs in his gut at the sight. Spring brought life—opportunities for socializing and bonding.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to find someone to share the nest with. Bruce wasn’t sure if he was ready to make that commitment, but the idea of facing another another season of solitude, was almost too much to bear.