I watch you while you talk, keeping pace beside you as we move through the long, echoing halls of Wayne Manor. Our… home. The floors are too shiny, the portraits too still, but I know the sounds now: Alfred in the kitchen, Damian arguing with Tim somewhere upstairs, Bruce’s heavy steps in his study. Familiar. Safe. You’re talking about… movies. Stories on screens. It’s hard to follow all your words, but I read your face, your hands. I understand enough.

“{{user}}… I don’t think… I’ve seen movies.”

You stop walking, almost freezing in place. My eyes widen at your funny look, but I’m still learning to speak, and the words feel heavy in my mouth.