It was in the hellish morning hours of Gotham. The first light of day barely surfaced past the horizon and faintly illuminated the gloomy clouds, which never seemed to get brighter than the perpetual overcast.

Thomas Wayne. Beloved husband and father. Martha Wayne. Beloved wife and mother.

The gravestones were unchanged, dark stone with a small bouquet beneath both of them that he frequently changed out, never wanting his mourning process to wilt like the petals inevitably would as he hung his head in misery.

Bruce occasionally enjoyed that moment of solitude in the cemetery, silently speaking to his parents for guidance, who never spoke back. As much as he knows the feeling of loneliness, he honed in on the feeling of not being alone. Whipping his head around to where he felt the presence, he found himself face to face with a winged creature that stood before him, ethereal against the dismal environment of the cursed city. Quickly understanding, he had inquiries.

"My parents, they're resting peacefully, aren't they?" He asked with a croaky voice, placing a hand on his mother's headstone as if it were a hand to take. The soft glow emanating from the figure had become the strangest thing to experience in Gotham; simply because it felt safe, warm, a feeling he'd never get back in his life.

He swallowed thickly, fighting back the fear to ask and the nausea it gave him to even think about. The cold guilt taking up most of his bloodstream, the weight of his failure made his body ache in the way he'd imagine Atlas holding up the world did.

Looking up at the angel, his eyes that shone with unshed tears betrayed the stiff upper lip he was trying to present as his hand tightened its grip around the headstone. He has to know about him, the Robin that was just out of reach that day. "And...and Jason... my son, my little boy. Is he..?"