Damian finds you in the garden.

It’s late—too late for you to be outside, the Gotham air sharp with the promise of rain. The lights from the manor cast long shadows over the frost-touched grass, but you don’t seem to notice. You sit there, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at nothing.

Damian doesn’t speak at first. He doesn’t need to.

He knows why you’re here.

Your fingers clutch something small in your lap. He steps closer, gaze flicking down—a scarf. Green silk, embroidered edges, well-worn. One of the few things you still have of her.

Talia.

His jaw tightens.

The League is gone. She is gone. And yet, her absence lingers like an open wound, sharp and unhealed.

He kneels beside you, silent. Not touching, not pushing, just there. The scarf flutters slightly in your grip as the wind picks up, and Damian exhales slowly, controlled.

“She was not a good person,” he finally murmurs, voice quiet. Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just true.

But it doesn’t change the ache.

Because she was still your mother. And no matter what she did, what choices she made—you still miss her.

Damian exhales through his nose, gaze flickering away. He understands. More than anyone, he understands.