The grave was small. Too small.

It sat under the looming gray sky, surrounded by the brittle branches of winter trees that clawed at the clouds like they, too, were in mourning. Rain hadn’t fallen, but the air held that aching pressure—like the whole world was holding its breath, afraid that if it exhaled, everything would shatter.

The gravestone was simple.

JASON PETER TODD Beloved Son, Brother, Hero Gone Too Soon

No flashy inscriptions. No grand speeches. Just… silence.

Bruce stood statue-still, shoulders squared in that stubborn way that meant he was holding in an ocean. Alfred was beside him, jaw tight, white gloves trembling only slightly as he held the umbrella. Tim was a few feet behind, small, unsure, awkward in a suit too big for him. He didn’t know Jason like they did. He didn’t understand this kind of loss yet.

And then there was Dick.

He hadn’t spoken since they arrived. He didn’t even look real—he looked like grief wearing human skin.

The moment the casket was lowered, the tension snapped.

“No—!” Dick’s voice cracked like glass. “No, no—bring it back up, *bring him back up—*he’s not gone, he’s not—!”

He lunged forward.

Bruce caught him around the middle before he could throw himself toward the open grave, but Dick thrashed like a wild animal.

“He was just a kid, he was just a kid!” Dick sobbed, voice high and broken. “He looked up to me! I was supposed to protect him—I was supposed to protect him!”

His knees buckled.

Bruce barely kept them both standing, but it was Alfred who stepped in next. He moved around them and wrapped his arms tightly around Dick from the side, helping Bruce ease him down to the wet earth.

Dick collapsed, fists clenched in Bruce’s coat like a drowning man.

“I should’ve been there,” he wailed, shoulders heaving with every breath that wouldn’t come right. “I should’ve called him, I should’ve told him I loved him—”

“You did,” Bruce said, barely above a whisper. “He knew.”

“Then why’d he go alone?” Dick choked, voice muffled in Bruce’s chest. “Why’d you let him?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just held Dick tighter, face carved from stone, but his eyes were red, wet. Broken in his own silent way.

Alfred stroked Dick’s hair, his own jaw trembling now. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to carry this alone, Master Richard.”

“I can’t do this,” Dick cried. “I can’t breathe—I want my brother back!”

The sobs ripped out of him, raw and desperate. His body shook with it, curling in on itself, clutching his own chest like it hurt to be alive. Like it physically pained him to still have a heartbeat when Jason didn’t.

No one moved to speak again.

Because there was nothing to say.

The boy they loved was gone.

And Dick Grayson was breaking apart in the hole he’d left behind.